Hello Madness, let's hug
The itching, I can't stop it.
Is it the sheets? the towels?
I'll bathe, but not dry off. I'll sleep on the floor, the couch, the bed, only not in the sheets, in a sleeping bag.

I'm sick. The coughing, the sneezing, the dry scratchy throat. Scratchy? Scratching. My nose, my chest, my fingertips- the itching.

I'm fine. My knee hurts less than it did three weeks ago. I ice it. I heat it. I lather it with icy hot and rub it. I stretch it. I rest it. The itching. The scratching. I tear off the sheets. They are the poison. There must be little bugs everywhere, I just can't see them. The Internet. Bed Bugs search. No. Madness.
Drink orange juice with a chamiolle chaser. Gargle salt water. Bathe. Must bathe. Will the water stop the itching or will it intensify? The new soap. Why "icy blast" this week of all weeks? I'm allergic to the soap. Stop the soap. Stop the itching. It's not stopping. Laundry. I wash the sheets.

Cough. Cough. Cough. Scratch. knee pain. I'm fine.

It's funny. I try to laugh and no sound comes out. I smile. I scratch some more. The timing.
I run to the mirror. Only I don't run because I haven't run in a week. I look. Who is that guy with the tiny head and the maniacal smile?

Spies. Not bed bugs. It's drugs. I need more ointments. The smells. Icy Hot. Anti-itching cream. Vick's Vapor Rub. They mix. They mix with the tea and the o.j. I can't smell them. My nose is clogged. Overwhelmed. I'm undone. I'm itching. I'm scratching. I'm rubbing.


I'M FINE!

The Election is coming! AIEEEE!
This blog endorses MorningStar Farms Spicy Black Bean Burgers.
I am
democracy
crumbling.

Relativity
Hearts are broken and rise from the ash again. Careers are undertaken, paths are lost, pacts are formed. New friends are made and postponed. Great hopes are dashed, and small hopes glimmer weakly through the fog. Pressure rains down from nowhere and sleep comes in spurts. What do you mean it's only Tuesday?

Listen up, me
We're done with your negative thinking. We're done with your whining and your sliding down the slippery slope of depression. We've had it. We're not going to take it anymore. It's over. Life's not fair. Things don't always work out the way you want them to. Hang on Sloopy. Sloopy, hang on. For the rest of this week, we're going to nurse the knee, we're going to nurse the throat. We're going to eat well. We're going to rest well. We are going to be all that we can be. Come Sunday, we're going to toe that starting line (or that line 13,000 people back from the starting line), smile because it's been a great ride and give it a go. If we have to walk, we'll walk. If we have to quit, we'll quit. There are people who have much bigger problems than not fulfilling a goal the way they wanted to. Consider yourself lucky. Remember the 20-miler? Wasn't that worth it? Of course it was. And how lucky are you that you've shared so many runs with your good friend Matt? Very lucky, man. Very lucky. So children are starving in somewhere, and old people are desperate for fanny packs somewhere, but you've got food on the table and a fanny pack stylishly situated on your hip. You're set. So, let's see that big smile. Give it the old college try. And quit your whining. Que sera sera. And other Latin that means get over it, punk. Enjoy. Rock on.

What's wrong with this blog?
I realized that one of the unfortunate side effects of this little blog-thingy is that everything I write is pretty much spewed into this box and then forgotten. Nothing I do is a labor of many weeks or days; instead it's a reaction, it's a moment, and then it's gone. This little space does many things, but if I want more than a moment, I need to find another outlet.

New Policy
Spontaneity will require at least two days advance notice.

Spectators RULE
If all goes well, at this time next week I'll be past halfway in a marathon (adjusting for daylight savings time). There will be thousands of runners, but few of us would survive without the thousands of spectators who have supported us all along the way. This morning, I spent some time as a spectator for a 10-miler. I learned a thing or two. As a runner, I learned that the crowd will respond if I ask. Any time a runner hollered, "Let's hear the crowd" or threw up their arms, the crowd cheered. Race spectators are there because they love runners, usually a specific one or two, but they'll certainly take any excitement they can get. As a spectator, I learned that prolonged clapping can be difficult, even painful. If I had a cowbell, or a bugle, or some other noisemaker that wouldn't frighten people, I think I might pack that with me. I also recommend that spectators prepare a few choice phrases to cheer on runners as they wait for their runner. Personally, I turned to the high-pitched "WOOOOO" quite often. I also liked "Good job!" and "Keep it up!" Spectators should probably avoid, "Move your ass!" and "Dear God you're slow!" Runners like cheering, but most of them don't miss that style of motivation.
As a spectator, I couldn't help but notice how much I wanted to cheer for people, but I didn't know what to say. The runners with college names, cities, states, etc. received loud cheers of "Go New Jersey!" or "Come on Colgate!" Some runners took it a step further and provided a script. "Go Steve!" emblazoned across one man's chest, elicited numerous screams of-- "Go Steve!". My scream included. I'm not going to go that route, but my name does appear on my shirt. Unfortunately, it should be larger. I think I'll take what I can get though.

As a spectator, if you don't have somewhere to be, stick around one spot until the crowd thins, but the runners are still carrying on. I promise you, you'll see some big big smiles in between some gritted teeth and pained looks. It felt good to be a spectator cheering everyone fighting through it. I'm counting on a few next week to get me through.

Aloha
I only bawl during REM sleep
because my days are luaus.
I'm juggling kiwis
and dancing the hula.
My sheet is my skirt.
My plastic cups coconut.
Wiki Wiki Waiki-kiki
Come-on-I-wanna-lei
awake under the stars
and listen to the waves.
Hold my hand and never
say Aloha.

Nurse Dave- Malpracticing all over the place
Symptoms:IT band, or knee, or something in that general area hurts.
Remedy: Will it away. Also, Icy Hot.

Symptoms: Cold, stuffy head
Remedy: More showers. Also, more orange juice.

Symptoms: Lameness on a Friday night.
Remedy: MILKSHAKE!

"O" MY GAWSH
Recklessly, I threw down my hard-earned cash on the "O" Cirque de Soleil show. I had heard good things from at least two people that I didn't trust. People I do trust also said they had heard good things. I was a little concerned that two people were responsible for the entire "good-things frenzy" and I was getting suckered. But O, how wrong I was.
Cirque de Soleil is a Canadian Circus. I, with my seven worthless years of French, want to translate it as "Circus from the Sun". Those wacky Canadians. There appeared to be a story of some sort. I have no idea what it was. I just know that there was a red curtain at the beginning and it appeared at the end. I was satisfied with that closure. In the middle, was the most amazing display of a cross-pollination of circus, synchronized swimming, diving, gymnastics, contortions, physical comedy and music. Every "scene" was my new favorite scene. Every time I got overwhelmed, they brought out the clowns. Even the set was phenomenal. It would probably be neat to just watch the set change. There were people walking on water. There were people on fire. There were people flying through the air, launched by giant swings, or carried off on large swaths of cloth. People dove, plopped on stage like dolphins and then promptly flipped back into the water. They danced, they balanced on trapezes, they balanced on flying ships, and they floated on houses. It was wild. It was beautiful. In that way it reminded me so much of myself. I digress.

I had my doubts, but they were blown out of the water. This circus had no lions, no tigers, no bears, but "O" MY!

I lost a filling and I feel empty
This is the first installment on the week I spent in Las Vegas. The Las Vegas Strip has to be one of the worst places in the world. It's zany and crazy at night. Excitement is trumpeted for as far as the ear can hear and lights blaze as far as the eye can see. If I had to hear Queen was ready to "rock me" one more time or if I had to see that giant g-string advertising some great nudie show, I think I was going to snap. It's sensory overload. It's beyond the ultimate tribute to materialism. Here's a place that peddles hope in the worst possible way. Winners are the people who turn their hard earned cash into more cash, I assume so they can buy more stuff. And this is entertainment? The worst part of it all, is that it is. I have been known to get excited about the sound of change falling into that metal pan. And now...
And now, half the time it's fake change! Slot machines now play the noise of change hitting the pan, because you get a ticket instead of change.

At least I had to spend a large portion of my time working. I work for an organization that is trying to help seniors age with dignity. It's a noble goal. Only, after working for 3 days in a booth giving away fanny packs stuffed with program literature, I question how much dignity these people really want. I may be narrow-minded, but dignity in my mind does not correlate with an overwhelming desire for a free fanny pack. Please, people, if you need a fanny pack so much that you're willing to stand in line for one, argue about one, I submit that you have absolutely no interest in dignity. You are as bad as the rest of Las Vegas in your relentless pursuit trying to turn what amounts to virtually nothing into something worthwhile. The phrase "Is this all there is?" haunts me and chases me through the maze of slot machines, tables and hotels. I hope for the sake of humanity that at least a small part of the free goodie grabbers were haunted by the same question. If not, we all need to forget aging with dignity and focus our energies on finding dignity in the first place.

In the morning, the Las Vegas Strip is a slightly different place. The cigar smoke has nearly all been washed away. The sun seems to bring a fresh hope to this sad architecturally-challenged little street. The lights pale compared to the morning sun. The fake Eiffel Tower, fake New York Skyline, fake everything seem small, insignificant, almost silly with a mountainous backdrop.
More to come...

"It's cheesy and sleazy no matter how you slice it."
Vegas Airport/Slotville USA- My coworker said this about Vegas and I think it should replace the wonderful "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" slogan. It might not attract the same crowd, but judging from the people I watched this week, it probably won't matter.

More details to come on Sin City, Seniors, wet pants, "O", and adventures in Boise, ID.

I miss my blog and yours.

Vegas Baby Vegas

High Fructose Corn syrup is my favorite food
I just saw Supersize Me and it was ok. I'm not awed, but I am thinking. That's a good thing. It's making me think, and I'd like to keep thinking for a while. I think I need to look at my own diet. I think I need to start making some healthier decisions. I think maybe I should replace some of the Tuxedos with fresh vegetables. Then I'd like to think a little bigger. I'd like to start thinking about the kinds of companies I'm supporting with my dollars. Maybe it's time to grow up a little and start really looking at the decisions I make. I realize this is in a post-movie sort of glow, but maybe if I put it out there it might last a bit longer. We'll see.

Put your pants on and cheer
One of my favorite things about Washington DC is public transportation. Yes, the fares are getting out of control and so are the MetroPolice. Yes, I've experienced overcrowding and long delays. But, Mass Transit is cool. So cool that people sing about it. Song #0107.

Pick me up and fly away
In airports I like to sit in that last row, the one that faces out into the space of the airport, the one where I can watch people hurrying to a gate, or munching on cinnamon rolls. I also like to sit at the end of a row, but I think that is more of a personal-bubble issue.

I was sitting at the end of a last row comfortably reading a book and waiting for a plane. I would be a negligent story-teller if I didn't admit that I had noticed her before. She was directly in my line of sight whenever I looked up. To say she was unattractive would be grossly unfair. To say she was distracting me from reading, probably inaccurate. Until he arrived. I watched out of the corner of my eye as this Irish-looking fellow put his bag down at her table and then took a couple of steps into my light. Perhaps he was looking at flight information above my head, but I'd realize later he was collecting himself before he returned to the table.

He sat down and began speaking to the woman. I stopped reading and watched as discreetly as I could. He was pale and his red hair was thinning. He looked to be in his late 30's. She was Asian and no older than 30. It was not impossible that these two knew one another, but I watched to find out. Snippets of conversation quickly told me that my instinct was right. It didn't take much to realize that our man here was on the prowl. I caught, "I was hoping to get a card." He was denied. She politely took his phone number and he mumbled something like "it was worth it," as he hurried off to his plane.

Wouldn't it be funny if she was on the same plane as me? I thought and forgot as I returned to reading. I was far more attentive to my book this time around. I perked up when my name was called over the PA system. All right already, I'll board the plane.

I made my way past all the full rows and spotted my empty window seat. Who was sitting in the aisle seat? She was. Funny indeed. My stomach rolled all around as I tried to decide what if anything I should say. Finally the pressure inside got to be too much and out popped, "I have to know, was that guy successful picking you up?"

She laughed and asked somewhat horrified, "You saw that?"

I did. And I was fascinated. We chatted for a while like single-serving friends will do. Then we arrived and said our goodbyes.

Did I get her card? Why, a gentleman never tells. Not to mention that this gentleman couldn't figure out how to go from poking fun at a guy who asked for a card to asking for a card himself. Starting a conversation with a not-unattractive stranger is a triumph for me.

A-ooooo-ga. A-oooooooooo- ga
I'm in this fog. It's that pre-eight-am-not-quite-awake sort of fog. The world is a little fuzzy, possibly not all there, but I'm not worried about it. I'll be awake soon enough.

The whistle blows. (I don't have a whistle, but I'm thinking maybe that's what's missing from my existence.) It's time to go home. The fog still hasn't lifted. It's Friday and the fog persists. The cloudless sky, the blue, the upper 70's temperature, none of these things is lifting the fog.

The fog says "Go back to bed." Isn't that what got me to the fog in the first place?

Sound the alarms. Brave a headache. Drink a milkshake. (I am not clear on why this will help, but I have a hunch that I need a milkshake.)

The fog says, "Just a little nap."

Maybe, I think. Maybe just a little nap. That can't hurt, can it? No, surely not, I think. A little sleep never killed anyone.

(Cue the dopey statistician and the suspensful music.)

For God's sake man. Just cry.
-I'm listening to the latest Hem CD and this Sally Ellyson woman sings unbelievably. Unbelievably. Her voice is loves lost, promises to keep, and perfect.

-I just read The Time Traveler's Wife. It's fantastic. It's a timeless love story told in a charming time-traveling tale. What great love is not past, present, and future? I can't tell you how many times I got choked up, or how many times I had to just close the book and stare off into the distance. This book is artful, it's philosophic, did I mention fantastic? (good call, Kate)

-There are some things about travel that make me very lonely. Travel also makes me want more travel.

-Speaking of time, travel, and philosophy, I paid 25 dollars for this hour*. I haven't figured out if that was a bargain or if I got ripped off. For 25 dollars should I be trying to achieve more, or should I relax? Was it really this hour? Or was it an earlier hour? And finally should work reimburse me for an hour? Sometimes they seem to owe me so much more and sometimes it seems maybe I owe them.

*For 25 dollars, a certain airline will allow you to leave on another scheduled flight if they have seats available. Hence, I am home an hour earlier than anticipated.

Oxford American Dictionary
date (dayt) n.
1. the day on which something happened...--no.
2. the period to which something belongs... --don't think so.
3. an appointment to meet socially.-- maybe, that sounds about right.
4. a person of the opposite sex with whom one has a social appointment. --its ok for me, but it seems a bit exclusive. Then again you can't be too hard on a book with a 1980 copyright.

That's it? That's all Oxford American has for me? It's the College Edition for crying out loud. That's not what date means. Where's the overthinking? Where's the elevated heart rate? Where's the potential for a roller coaster ride of emotions? I don't see any mention of the awkward pauses, of the should-I-or-shouldn't-I-goodnight kiss, the nerves, the thrill, the disappointment, the out and out rejection. Oh Oxford, you fail me here. You're usually so on top of things, right to the point, all over it, but here; here, you seem to agree with my mom.

Have you and my mom been conspiring? Are you actually trying to tell me that date doesn't have to be such an overdramatic experience? It's just an appointment. It's just social. Nothing more. My very life does not in fact hang in the balance? I should just be myself? Not get so worked up? Is that what you're saying?

Maybe next time, Oxford American Dictionary. Maybe next time.

Or maybe I should stick with the small, brown sweet edible fruit of the date palm, a palm tree of North Africa and Southwest Asia.

Dear Great-Highlight-filmmaker in the sky,
When you are making my highlight film after I've danced my last dance or whatever we're calling it, can you please include today's highlight. I only point it out because I am fearful that it might otherwise be overlooked. It is not as obvious as say, the fake-ballet dive I did into a fellow groomsman's arms last year at the Smith wedding. The ballet was fake, but the dive oh so real. Or apparently the time I wore all of the clothes in the lost and found at FARC. It certainly isn't as obvious as the time I outkicked "Nacho" in a two-mile, or the time I caught a Callahan for the winning score in a Sectionals game. I know I'm only 26 and the highlight reel might seem a little long, but how can you resist a highlight that involves 4 dashing young men, a wee bit of the street smarts, and queen-sized box springs? I'll fail to do it justice in the description, which is why I hope you got it on tape, or whatever they use for recording up there. For those people who don't get to view the tape, I'll try to explain how this highlight unfolded.

We were in the process of moving some friends.
The main players in this portion of the drama were Matt, Rob, Reuben and me (we're the 4 dashing young men, see). We had just finished struggling up three flights of stairs with a mattress. We hit wall at nearly every turn, and if not for the bendy nature of a mattress we may have struggled for quite a bit longer. When we returned with the box spring, the proverbial light bulb went off in someone's head. If we turned the box spring, we might be able to hand it up through the hole at the center of the staricase. Like a SWAT team in a highly-skilled manuever we rotated expertly as we pushed and pulled the box spring to its final destination. We were a well-oiled machine- a team of high powered box spring movers. For a moment we four were the grand champions of the moving universe. All those who saw bowed before us. Which is why it's so unfortunate that no one saw this triumph in moving.

Respectfully yours,

Fine. I admit it.
There are times I like cell phones. It sure is convenient when I'm lost; that's lost on my way to a party or lost in the more cerebral sense. I like that you'll be there on the other end when I need you. I realize that you might be busy and I certainly hope that in those cases you'll ignore me, but if you're not busy then you're there to listen. And sometimes I need someone there to listen. Because I do get lost. I get lost more than I want to. Most of the time I find my own way out, but every so often it's nice to know that I can call you and you can help me out. Thanks. And thanks for having a cell phone.

Even if they are a direct connection to the devil.

Who let Bartlett loose?

A quote from the roommate
"I feel like I want to shower again but I'm not sure if that's necessary or a good idea. I'm not sure I smell bad. But walking to and from here and Foggy bottom..."

The ellipse occurs at the precise moment when my ability to hold a conversation (cough. cough.) and my ability to type (giggles.) were at odds with one another.

A quote from me
"I feel like I want to unbutton my shirt and dance on my chair. I also want to do lots of whooping and hollering 'cause it's the weekend and I'm kind of pleased with that."

A quote from Amber
"A Belgian Waffle has no offensive tactical strength."

A quote from my green naughyde couch a.k.a. "The UltraLounge"
"pfftttf"

One more quote that won't make my mother proud
The setting of this quote is pertinent. I was at a Catholic University playing Ultimate. When my team made a mental error, I started screaming, "When you switch the mark in the middle of a play, you are SCREWING! your teammates." Repeat at full volume at least 3 times.

The moratorium on thinking is over!
....er...at least I thought it was.

Items for discussion
1. Are beards symbolic emotional shields? Does the length matter? Or is it all just hair on the face?

2. How sexy are my calves? Are they irresistibly sexy? Or just really really sexy?

3. Do colognes and perfumes go bad? And if they do, should they be called something else? Like old smelly liquid?

4. Swedish pancakes vs. Belgian waffles- Who wins in a Death Match?

Talk about your gray areas
I really didn't know who to root for here. It's a battle between the overbearing Metro cop and the Annoying Cell Phone User.

Actually in this case, I think I'm going to have to side slightly on the side of the Cell. It's not because she's pregnant, though that could not have been pointed out much more often, but because the punishment didn't fit the annoyance.

I'm not paid to care part 2
or Does Marilyn control the universe?
I went to work today with my mind heavily engaged in my own "stuff". I did my work, but I didn't feel like I was really there until at least mid-day. However, once I got going, I didn't want to stop. Which I think somehow further proves that:
1. I have no idea what I want.
2. Refer to 1.

What do I want?

Welcome to Overanalysis Theater
I'll be your host this evening. I hope that's ok with you. Maybe you'd like a different host. One with a deeper voice? Or maybe you'd rather not be at this theater. Maybe you wanted to be on Broadway, but you got turned around and ended up here. I hope you aren't disappointed. I'd offer you drinks, but I'm afraid that might seem like I'm coming on a bit strong. I don't want to come on too strong when you just got here. I'd hate for you to leave. Then again if you left,I wouldn't have to put on this performance. Maybe it'd be better for both of us if you left. Then I'd miss out on an opportunity to really give a sensational performance, the kind of performance that could make me famous and you stand up and cheer. Of course I could also flop. I could end up miserable and alone. Maybe that's what you want. It probably is. That's why you're frowning. It isn't possible that you're frowning for some other reason. It most certainly must be a sinister desire to see me fail. Why, I bet you came here just to see me fail. You'll be 7.5 times as likely to be happy if I fall flat on my face. That's what you want isn't it? I should stop talking to you all together. Or maybe it's not like that at all. Maybe your frown is just a figment of my overactive imagination. Maybe it's a smile and I'm just too dense to recognize it. Or it's a smile and my brain is failing to invert your head. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. The voices. The whispers. The madness is closing in like a curtain. It's the curtain call at Overanalysis Theater. I hope you enjoyed the show. I hope it wasn't too long or too short or it left you appropriately adequately satisfied, if that's what you wanted, I mean.

My advice to you
Ignore unsolicited advice.

Mr. Sandman
WTF mate?

It's after midnight and neither hungriness nor horniness is strong enough to compel me to action. Instead I sit here, ready to discuss my recent Buffy and Angel addiction. I feel this story is most appropriately told from the beginning.

In the beginning there were Buffy fans. These fans went to my college and they said, "Rah. Rah. Watch Buffy." And I said, "No." And they said (in high pitched voices, of course), "Why?" And I said (in my coming-of-age-manly-college voice) "Because Ed's on. And also because I might want to play frisbee. And furthermore I don't want to." What I really meant by that last part was that I didn't want to exactly because these fans wanted me to. There are times when my sense of rebellion is um, like, totally lame (said in my best valley girl).

Time passed.

I moved to this area and found all those same Buffy fans and they said (back to their high pitched-ways), "Rah. Rah. La la la Now you should watch and sing Buffy." And I said (in my wise twenty-something voice) "I'd really rather not." And they said, "La La La. You don't have to watch but we're going to talk about it ceaselessly and make you sing along- la la la."
And I sang.

Time passed.

For a moment the fans seemed disquieted by the lack of news in the Buffyverse and the ceaseless talking ceased.

And deep in the recesses of my deep and recessful mind, the rumblings of the end of a rebellion rumbled. So one night, not so long ago when the question "What shall we do?" was posed, I suggested (in my I'm-26-and-too-cool-for-all-this-faux-rebellion voice which sounds nothing like Bob Saget) "Let's watch Buffy."

And the peasants rejoiced.

My friend Kim, who in my opinion should have an honorary degree from the charred remains of Sunnydale High, was placed in charge of picking an episode that would be both enjoyable, but also have what they call in the industry (What industry? Who cares?) the "hooks".

Kim, like a frickin' fireman, came through with the hooks and the ladder, bi-atch! But that was like August and so I have almost no recollection of which episodes she chose. I'm pretty sure it was in season 2. And I know there was some serious Buff and Angel melo-DRAMA.

And Time passed. Only in this case it was like lots less time. And it was hardly passing at all unless I was consuming either Buffy or Angel. The fruit of Joss's mental loins was like my f-in' rock candy. And so I'm jamming away, chowing down on DVD after DVD, and now like 2 months later I've been through something like 4 seasons of the Buff-ster and 2 of good old Angelicus. OUT OF CONTROL.

And the next thing you know I'm surrounded by all these fans and we're watching season 1 and I totally realize that I'm one of them. I don't have all the ties, because like Riley wasn't breaking Buffy's heart at the same time as my boyfriend was breaking my heart and so Buffy and I do not lead parallel lives. I just don't have the life time investment connection that the TV fans had, but I've developed my own sense of fanaticism. And it involves the desperate need for closure more than the full-on identification with the characters. Don't get me wrong. These shows are some good times, which I suppose is what most of you were saying all along, but Carol Vescey and Ed and the bowling alley... And I had the rebellion thing going. It was all modern-day James Dean only with more khaki and less jean.

P.S. I love Charisma Carpenter.
Shut up.

Spare me
You only have two bowling choices anymore- leagues or X-treme Cosmic Galactic Bowling. So either you're a serious bowler or you're like high and tripping on your bowling Xperience.
Curses.

I've got the caution.
You've got the wind.
Catch.

Worryometer readings continued cause for worry
Of course I get paid to care. What good is anyone if he/she doesn't care at all? My real point was that I'm not doing anyone any good to worry about stuff while I'm not at work. I can't fix things not in my control. I can't fix things that are already done. Got to move on here. Get over it. Come on. I can do it. I care. I'm just frustrated with the apparently inevitable Responsibility Creep. I'm doing the best I can, but everyday it seems like I have to do my best on a few more things. I'm starting to spread a little thin. And I'm concerned. And no I haven't talked to my manager about it. I haven't failed yet. I just don't want to. Probably because I care, whether they pay me to or not.

I'm not paid to care
There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I could put in my time at work. At the end of the day, I could go home. I didn't think much about home at work. I didn't think much about work at home. The world was in balance.

Now I'm teetering. I think about work at home. I don't want to think about work at home. I'm not paid to think about work at home. I can't (won't) do work at home, so I don't really see a reason to think about it. Now, how do I convince my brain of same?

Is this why I should be a robot? So I could just shut off the work part of my brain when my feet hit the sidewalk. "Work Mode is off. Ding!"

If I were a robot, I probably wouldn't like to watch Love Actually. And I probably wouldn't pause it when Keira was getting married. And I probably wouldn't drool on myself.

So I won't be a robot, but I should really return the DVD. At least with a VCR when I hit pause it made it fuzzy. Now I can look in Keira's perfect eyes and there's no fuzz. There's almost no reason not to pause.

Like Score
I like to roll it around on my tongue. I like the way it sounds, "Twenty". It smells like perserverance and tastes like determination. I like that Matt was there. He can verify it, because he's crazy too. I like the way it makes my calves hurt, the way it sent me through 3 plus hours of misery, glory, wretched pain and natural high. I like the looks I get when I tell people what I did on Sunday.

"I ran twenty miles." I like that it made my Monday morning fabulous, and my whole Sunday superb. Most of all, I like that I did it.

The stars are ours tonight
they sparkle and they shine so bright, go the lyrics to one of the songs on one of my birthday mix tapes. The song was terribly cheesy and perhaps therefore more fitting.

I can't find the tape. I don't know the rest of the lyrics. I rarely see the stars. Tonight the DC sky is filled with them, or as filled as I've ever seen the sky here. It's kind of like when a Midwesterner (not counting Chicagoans) says they have bad traffic. Bad traffic in the Midwest is light traffic here. A DC sky filled with stars is like an overcast night out that way.

I've always liked stars. I used to make lots of wishes. Sometimes I'd stand outside and wish I wasn't lonely, and sometimes I'd wish to get rich, or wish that I knew what I was doing, but most of the time my wish was more like, "I wish to be happy more than I'm sad."

So far so good. I didn't recognize any constellations; a failure of light pollution or a lack of astronomy knowledge. The two lines from the song played on repeat in my head as I tried to take in the clear night and fight off the slight chill. A silent tiny streak flashed across the sky- a shooting star. I made a wish as quickly as I could- not for me, for I am coming off such a fine weekend whose weather and recreation approached perfection. But for another. One whose happiness I can't help but wonder about, especially under a dark canopy poked through with a hundred pinholes.

For a moment, the stars are again, ours, tonight.

I'll take things that are laugh-out-loud funny for 200, Alex

This woman and her antics.

And things that nearly make me cry for 400, please

Joey and Sarah B. I don't know 'em, but that shouldn't stop you from reading Part 1.

Go on, read all 4 parts.

Boxing with idiots
I still haven't fully come to terms with the lack of television in my life. (DVDs don't count.) Although, tonight I started to realize just how "out of touch" I have become and just how much I don't care. It was Thursday night TV, my first TV since the Olympics. The pre-Joey Inside Edition, ET, or whatever, was on and it was unbelievable how much I just couldn't handle all the on-screen cutting and the commercials. It was all driving me mad. I was getting a headache. At first I couldn't figure out why, and then it hit me- I haven't watched a commericial in weeks. Oh how the ad major has fallen...

Tune in later to find out how the lack of TV has contributed to a less material-driven, more word-of-mouth me. It's not that I don't want stuff, it's just that I don't want the same stuff with the same intensity.

It's like (very much like, in fact it's barely a parody of) that Moulin Rouge Medley; only instead of lovers it's neighbors because you should move into the house for rent next door to me
Instructions: This is best read with the Moulin Rouge Love song Medley (I don't know what it's actually called) playing along and your imagination stretching on several of the lines.

(Start Music)

Me (Ewan): Next door is a very splendid thing.
Next door is where you belong.
All I need is you next door.

You(Nicole): Don't start that again.

me: All I need is you next door.
you:We can't afford the rent.
me:All I need is you next door.
you: We won't pay a cent.
me: All I need is you next door.
you: Next door is just a dream.

me: They built a house for you to live in.
And I live right next to it.

you: The only way we're moving in see
is if you'll pay our utilities.

me: Just sign a lease, sign a lease.

you: There's no way, unless you pay.

me: In the name of neighbors, just sign a lease for me.

you: You crazy fool. I won't give in to you.

me: Don't. Leave me this way. I can't survive without you next door. Oh baby, don't leave me this way.

you: Some people want to fill their neighborhoods with all their friends.

me: I look around me and I see, it hasn't worked.

you: Some people want to fill their streets with all their crazy pals.

me: Well, what's wrong with that? I'd like to know, 'cause here I goooooooo again.

me: Neighbors lend us sugar when we run out
fix our rec-ipes in emerg-encies.

You: Neighbors make us act like we are fools, throw our garbage away on trash day.

Me: We could be neighbors! just for one year.

You: You, you would be mean.
Me: No. I won't.

You: And I, I'll drink all the time.


Me: We could be neighbors
You: We can't do that.
Me: We could be neighbors. And that's a fact
You: Though nothing could bring us together
Me: We could steal timeshare, just for one year.

Us: We could be neighbors forever and ever. We could be neighbors forever and ever.
Us: We could be NEIGHBORS.

Me:Just because I iiiiiiiiiii will always live next door.
You:IIIIIIII will always live.

Us: How wonderful this place is, now that you live nearby.


Short French guy: (French words I don't know. Je ne sai pas.) NEIGHBOOOOOOOORS!!!!!!!!!!!

Schmoozin' on the river
I hate schmoozing. Hate it. It's worse than small talk. It's small talk multiplied by insincerity to the power of suck-up. Schmoozing, as Wayne and/or Garth might say, "Blows goats."

Today, I had to schmooze on a cruise as our office took a "summer outing." So I schmoozed, or I at least politely nodded while people schmoozed all around. I admit there was a pinch of small talk mixed in, but it was quelled by the schmoozefest. The two worst moments:

1. When a coworker of mine, one I'm fond of, and one that happens to be a fascinating individual gave me the same insincere, "Heyhow'sitgoing?Doingallright?Havingfun?" bit that she was giving everyone else. I think I stared vacantly past her.

2. When the topic turned to Vegas and another coworker, whose vibe I've never liked, started badgering me about interest in the Vegas burlesque scene. What the ???? You don't know me. You don't know how I feel about burlesque. Lay off.

Sometimes even free meals aren't worth the price.

My new motto
You'll get there faster if you run screaming.

Everybody wins
at Thursday Night Laundry.

Commuticable diseases
This morning I tried out that hour plus commute that so many of my neighbors seem to enjoy. What's all the fuss? I had a lovely run to work, except that one section that made me want to vomit.

One for the Gipper
I stalked the sidelines in my khakis and dress shoes. I hollered. I bossed. I cheered. I coached. I didn't play Ultimate. I wanted to, but I didn't. One small victory for me; let's see how the team does.

What?
If I was a giant Tuxedo-eating robot, starring in a romantic comedy opposite Keira Knightley, do you think I would need to be the rough and tumble type or would I need to be more of the sensitive robot type? Are there even sensitive robot types? I think there probably are, like the ones who wear lipstick, or like Johnny 5. He was sensitive, then again he was alive. Johnny 5 is alive! You think he's still alive? I think so. I mean he had a rough couple of years what with the short circuiting and all, but he seemed to come out on top, in fact didn't he come out golden? and not in the slang way either, Johnny 5 was gold-plated if I remember correctly. My favorite line from those movies was, "Your mother was a vacuum cleaner." I am not willing to wager that was the first big onscreen Mom joke. It killed! Oh my.

Tuxedos are Safeway brand Oreos. They taste just like Oreos, but better than Hydrox. I've never liked Hydrox much. The name is kind of creepy too. Like some weird cookie science experiment.
Do you think the cookie monster was a weird science experiment? Like maybe he wasn't supposed to be blue at all. Oh the horror. Poor guy.

In reference to #2 of the previously unnumbered list
It occurs to me that I may not have ever known who or what I was missing; instead there were times I was distracted.

Do you ever look in the mirror and say, "Who is that?"

-I am waging a battle with pride and instant gratification. I know that if I play Ultimate I could very easily hurt myself with a mere two months to go before the marathon. Twice I've played. And twice I've ached. It's time to accept the reality or face the consequences.

-I don't even know who or what I'm missing anymore. I just know that there are moments where my heart hurts. I reach out but all I clutch at is emptiness.

-Until I trimmed my moustache, I was very very pleased by the whiteness of the bathroom thanks to recent cleaning efforts.

in-law
Sometimes when I'm telling a story I come to the part where I need to say, "my sister and brother-in-law." And sometimes "brother-in-law" does not come out of my mouth as smoothly as "sister" did. My verbal slip-up invariably leads to the question, "It's weird having a brother-in-law, isn't it?"

No. It isn't. I thought it would be, but it's much harder to say than it is to accept. Now granted, he's been in action for something nearing 3 months and in that time I have spoken to him minimally, but as I put together photos from the wedding in an album, I am quickly reminded at how natural it all seems. My sister and Kevin look like they belong together. My sister loves Kevin, by extension I love Kevin. And that's that. So I don't say brother-in-law very well; I don't say stunningly handsome very well either, and I think we've all adjusted to that quite nicely.

Let's make a deal
I will serve you a heaping bowl of Mud Pie ice cream if you give me a back massage.

DOh! the comedy
The Laurel to my Hardy: So Dave, I heard you went to an Orioles game at Camden Yards. Who won?
Dave: I don't know.
The Abbott to my Costello: You don't know? Did you leave early?
Dave: I couldn't see.
The George to my Jerry: You couldn't see? Was there an obstruction?
Dave: Yes.
The Peter to my Paul and Mary: There was an obstruction. Why didn't you get up and move?
Dave: It was a big obstruction.
The Romulus to my Remus: How big?
Dave: About the size of the East Coast.
The peanut butter to my jelly: THE EAST COAST! Dave, you do exaggerate.
Dave: I ain't exaggeratin'. The game was in Florida.
The Jenna to my Barbara: (wide-eyed head shake)
(laugh track)

Quoth the Raven, "We're closed"
Having been denied the pleasures of an Orioles game, I decided to visit the home of Edgar Allan Poe. No publicly available map at the Visitor Center stretched far enough to show the location of Poe's home. The "you should be all right there in the daylight" may be an indication as to why. I arrived at the home of Poe in the heart of the ghett-o (that's poetic, see) only to find a sign that said, "Closed at 2:45pm on Thursday". I looked at my watch- 2:47. Poe escaped my clutchs, but will probably die a suspicious death and end up buried on Greene St. At least I think that's what will happen.

I got you Babe
About the only saving grace in my otherwise futile attempt to tour Baltimore was Babe Ruth's home. Allegedly fun fact: The Sultan of Swat allegedly ate 18 hot dogs in one sitting. It wasn't the most thrilling "museum" I've ever seen, but at least it was open.
Another fun fact: Babe was short for Baby 'cause Ruth was just out of high school when he played in Baltimore.

Who ended the Olympics?

I wasn't finished.

You kiss your mother with that mouth?
I'm sorry universe. I shouldn't have used such foul language. All I needed was a little run.

The equilibrium in the universe
DAMN YOU, UNIVERSE! I need a weekend.

Dear friend,
This is a rather difficult letter to write. In it I intend to admit that I am not perfect, you are not perfect, and our friendship is not perfect.

Where do I start? We've been friends for how long now? I've lost track of a life pre-you. You've been there when things got tough. When I was down about work, or down without work, or bummed about my broken heart, you were there. And even if you were down about work, or down without work, or bummed with a broken heart of your own, you put up with me. You put up with my wandering rants and my sadness masked as comedy. You stopped me and said, "I'm here if you need me." What did I do to thank you? I insulted you. Granted it probably wasn't an out and out insult, but I injected enough cynicism into my compliment that left you no doubt that I was cutting you as I was praising you. Swell. That's what friends are for?

Somewhere along the line you came to expect my two pronged statements, often calling them refreshing bits of honesty. They were honest, for even strengths and weaknesses have big gray areas. Big gray areas that I frankly think too many people ignore. Yet, it isn't fair. Sometimes praise needs to go unchecked. I need to appreciate you in the moment. You have been a fantastic friend to me. You've been better than I ever deserve and for that I need to ignore the gray areas. Not all the time, because I wouldn't know how, but every so often I need to let you know that I love you. I think the world of you. I can't imagine my life without you. You listen. You care. You keep me in line. I can't thank you enough.

I know we have our disagreements. I know we've struggled with how exactly our lives should fit together, but we're not puzzle pieces. We don't have interlocking sections, we are more like different flavors of ice cream melting together (forgive me, I had Spumoni tonight). Our flavors mix and meld together to make a big tasty treat. Friends like you don't go away. You change me, add to me, make me more me than I could be without you. Like any mixture, sometimes there's too much and others not enough. We're always working on our recipe.

We've been through a lot and there's more to come, but before we go on I just wanted to stop and say again, thank you for being in my life.

in Stability
I'm at a strange point right now, where it suddenly seems as if much of the world is hurtling past me while I stand on a little island that isn't moving at all. Instead of being jealous of all the little pieces spinning off on adventures, I'm a little sad. How did I get this stability? And how can I make room on my little slab of planet for those whizzing by? Then I wonder, do the intergalactic space travelers really want to stop on my slab anyway?

I'm not saying I don't ever want to veer wildly off course again, but for a second I get to catch my breath and have the semblance of a spot. The only thing missing is you. I'm not even saying you have to stay long, but it'd be nice if some time you could catch your breath and I could catch mine at the same time in the same spot.

Manic Monday indeed
Sometimes you still need Mom to save the day.
Well-timed cookies'll do.

Just honored to be there?
This column about Marion Jones almost made me cry. It's the part of the Olympics that 95% of the Olympians experience and yet losing is so rarely the story. Losing is such an ugly word here. Human struggle might be better? Or failure to win? It's still losing and I have no doubt it still stings for a long time.

The Work-Life balance takes Work side flop
Can't...stop...working. Must...unclench...jaw.

The worst kind of wonderful
Work is stressing me out. My legs have felt like lead weights all week. I'm not sleeping well. My posture is terrible and it's making my lower back hurt. Strangely enough, I'm in a good mood. I credit the marathon. The positive feeling training for a goal is bringing to me is just cascading across and through everything I do. You're probably sick of hearing it, but it's the worst kind of wonderful.

Or is it the best kind?

Nice shoes
I'm serious people, "a marathon will change your life."
I know it's trite. I know you've heard it before, but now hear it from me. Physical benefits aside, marathons are great conversation fodder. It seems everybody has run a marathon, thought about running a marathon, or at least convinced themselves that they will never run a marathon. Tonight alone-
1. Guy at shoe store- chatted me up about the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon.
2-7. Went to a party, everyone who had a conversation with me asked about the marathon. Those that had run before told me their thoughts. Those who hadn't wished me well. The ones who had, we were like best buds. We could have traded running stories, training stories, the whole bit, for ages. It's like I've joined this club and the entrance fee was the guts to go for a dream. Kinda makes me wonder how many other clubs like that are out there.

I'm not saying my conversation didn't die out, but it hung in there a lot longer than it usually does. Isn't a marathon all about ENDURANCE, anyway?

Olympic uncoverage
I am reminded of a Belle and Sebastian song, Stars of Track and Field, in no small part because I bought the album today. The song says something to the effect of "Stars of Track and Field are beautiful people."

They are, and not just the ones in FHM and Playboy either. I can't believe how many people have said the women's marathon made them cry. The sweep in the 400m was, to steal the vernacular of some rapper, like WHOA. We're only halfway through the week. I'm a bit biased, but I still say, Michael who?

The Long and Short of it

The Long
Libations in the year ‘04:
1. Three quarters of one beer with a name like Molten Cider Ale or Bear Barley Beer consumed, late June. The name intrigued me at the time, but the taste was pure beer and quickly caught up.

2. Two margaritas poured and consumed at Chez Smith, mid-July. I remember feeling especially warm and pretty.

3. Just a smidge of Finney’s, an Irish liquer, a Bailey’s knock-off, downed with opening ceremonies- a fine chaser to the shrimp and buffalo wings.


Actual verbal contact with unknowns of the opposite sex in ‘04:
1. One tough compliment, circa February, to the CVS girl.
2. A brief conversation with a runner in June following repeated eye-contact.
3. An even briefer caveman-esque conversation with two women in line at King’s Dominion. “Me run. You run? MYUNG”


That’s three drinks and four women in eight months. What you might ask, as I now ask myself, would compel me to ask a woman, “Would you like to go out for drinks?”

I found myself alone in downtown Salt Lake City. When she served me Gelatto, she’d asked if I was from around here. I wasn’t, but suddenly wanted to be. I wandered around mixing my raspberry and chocolate treats in thought. The two flavors went well together and my courage began to grow with each bite. I finished my Italian ice cream and boldly returned to her. She helped the last of the customers after closing time with a smile while I loitered. I loitered with all of the UN-creepiness I could muster. As the last customer left, I stepped toward the counter.

“Back for more?” she asked.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I shyly told her, “but I’m in town on business with the AARP. The old folks have gone to bed and I’m not ready to. I was hoping maybe you’d want to show me around.”
“Uh,” she said with the slightest smile and possible discomfort, “there’s not a lot to see.”

I could tell my chances were melting like the rainbow of gelatto between us, so I pulled out the terribly trite but infinitely useful, “Maybe we could go out for drinks?” When I say infinitely useful here, I really mean not so useful.

“I’m Mormon. So I don’t drink.”
At this point I’m backtracking, but not giving up, “I don’t drink much either. I just...”

This tale should be over now, we’ve reached the punchline after all, but somewhere in there it seems a corner has been turned.

I’m stumped when she says, “I’m really into the Olympics. Maybe we could go somewhere to watch.”
“That’d be great,” I say with a shocked grin.

We chitchat a bit while she closes up shop. Katie and David going to watch the Olympics. Already I’m trying to get some conversational questions ready for emergencies. How do I ask about being Mormon?

She counts the money in the cash register and I grow quiet not wanting to break her concentration. I start to fret that I’ve already let the silence lapse into the land of the creepy.

“I need to call home, before we go,” she tells me. Katie continues to close in the back room while on the phone. The phone call goes on for a while. I successfully don’t hear either side as I stand propped against the door trying to take the advice of many a yearbook by staying cool.

Maybe I wasn’t cool. As Katie locks the door, it’s one of those with the locks at the tip top and the very bottom, she says to me, “It’s not that I don’t trust you or think...well I live with my Grandma and I don’t think she’d be happy if I went out after work with someone she didn’t know.”

“I understand,” I tell her trying to conceal disappointment inside complete understanding, I hated the world for it, but I understood.

“Come back Saturday for Gelatto. I work then.”

“I’ll be gone.” And this little scene will be the highlight of my trip. Thanks Katie, for the best rejection I’ve had in a long time.


The short
Boy meets girl.
Boy asks girl out for drinks.
Girl says, “I’m Mormon. I don’t drink.”
Boy, oh boy.

All of this. Could be yours
Like a white trash space alien, I bopped along on a cross training bike ride to the latest mix, "Good grooves to Celebrate Good Yrs". My giant black earmuff headphones were stretched to their limit over my shiny white bicycle helmet. With one ear in the muff and the other blowing in the wind, I pedaled a nearby trail. The headphone wire wound around me three times forming a loosely knotted black sash. Also adorning my midsection, a 1985 Sanyo walkman hung from the chest strap of my new CamelBak. The maroon and silver of my high-priced canteen could only complement the faded dirty yellow of my Class of 2004 Fall Welcome shirt, complete with chocolate stain on the sleeve.
To protect the innocent, my navy wee-bit-too-short shorts were haphazardly thrown on over my black Meet the Parents "Keep the snake in its cage" boxers. Speaking of snakes, the handlebar tape on my bike started to unravel and fluttered like a flatworm in the wind before I carelessly reattached it to the bars it had unwittingly tried to escape.
Twice during the ride I had to reach down and flip my tape over. Each time I managed to eject the tape and get it running again without stopping. I rewarded myself with extra big sips from the CamelBak.
No animals were harmed on this ride, except maybe those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys.

The side effects of running
Running, the kind I've undertaken the last two weeks trotting farther than I ever have before, produces a special sort of delirium that I have to imagine is not unlike drunkenness. It also produces some other interesting side effects. Such as:
*the ability to devour a whole can of cream corn as a side dish and still be hungry
*sore nipples
*a deep penetrating hatred of shoes
*stair-induced grunts
*chafed thighs
*a twisted sort of self-satisfaction
*AND SO MUCH MORE!

I'm going to the Olympics
if I had a time machine. I heard I might get to see a flame burning. Does anybody know if the torch-bearers lit all the old flames as they made their way to Greece? Other than that, my only hope is that Alberto Tomba or Picabo Street is still hanging around Olympic village just waiting for me. Would I even recognize them if they weren't on skis or skin tight clothes?

Buncha jerks
I just realized I'm ticked off. I can't remember who I'm upset with at this moment; that's probably better. Why? Some company offered Michael Phelps, 19-year old swimming phenom, a million dollars (or some not insignificant sum of money) if he won all 8 gold medals. Nothing wrong with that, right? It adds a little of the betting man's excitement to the game? It means that if the stars align and Phelps rocks, then he'll get a nice payoff on all his hard work, no? Both true, but what's it really do? It puts some company's name out there associated with Phelps, associated with the Olympics, at virtually no cost. The chances that Phelps was going to get all 8 were slim. I don't know what it's like to be on top of my game in international competition, but I have trouble beating my dad at HORSE 8 times in a row. So Phelps had his work cut out for him. The company, however, was virtually guaranteed free PR. Phelps is a huge story. America loves its champions, we love our GRAND champions even more. Phelps is a story, large sum of money is a story, BAM! Company X is popping up in news stories all over the place. Maybe they were his sponsor, but that only matters a little bit.

When Phelps won bronze in the relay, and remember, he and his teammates won bronze rather than lost gold, Phelps had lost a chance to break Spitz's record. That he'd lost. And he'd lost a million dollars. "Hi. I'm 19 and I need the added pressure of losing a million dollars on my shoulders. Thanks for your support."

Phelps, as far as I can tell has handled this like a true champion. He was thrilled with the first gold. He was all smiles. He'd met his goal. Anything else was just going to be icing on his Olympic cake. The pictures show him congratulating his rival, "The Thorpedo" on a victory. He's got more swimming to do and I hope he does it well. I hope his medals weigh him down on the plane ride home. I hope that everybody forgets Company X like I have. Buncha jerks.

Oh really?
I was starting to worry that this little blog was turning me into a caricature of myself.

After reading about the Washingtienne, and this quote in particular: "As for herself, she tries to look on the bright side. "I was only blogging for, what, less than two weeks?" she says. "Some people with blogs are never going to get famous, and they've been doing it for, like, over a year. I feel bad for them." I realized that (insert tongue in cheek) I have a lot of work to do.

Me are confident
"Wake me up, before you go go(or girl depending on your lyricist)," bounced around my head. I had to wonder where George Michael had come from. I was running along half asleep and then WHAM! there he was singing 80's skating party tunes in my noggin'. My noggin' was growing increasingly wet from the downpour, but this really wasn't something that I could blame on the rain. I belted out a few bars, but then I lost my nerve. I had the strangest feeling that the rhythm was gonna get me, so I surged. The rain drops kept falling on my head, but for some reason I'd lost the beat. I turned to my fellow runners and politely asked, "Have you got the beat?"
In unison they responded, "We've got the beat. We've got the beat. We got it! Yea!" That was a bit much for me, so I told them I'd had a swell time, but that I really needed to beat it. I took a quick left turn, I would've gone right but I thought I'd seen a bad moon. Anyway, I soon found myself alone. There didn't seem to be anyone around. I thought, "I think I'm alone now." I wasn't sure where I was going, not sure where I had been, I just knew that I was running against the wind, oh and also, singing in the rain.

That useless post didn't make any sense, let me try again
Leading a fairly solitary life, at least on a day-to-day sort of basis, and working a job that doesn't have that much supervision may render me ill-equipped to deal with surprise attacks of peer pressure. From the outsider's perspective I probably don't seem like the type to give into peer pressure, but lately I've felt very susceptible to forces not in my control. (Some might argue that's all the forces, but I'll deal with them later. in a dark alley.)

Today at work I was in a situation where a private document was out of my hands and being shared with coworkers before I was able to register what happened. I'm not exactly at fault because if the document wasn't for other eyes, I probably shouldn't have had it in my hands, but the speed at which things moved from my hands to action was dizzying. I don't recall jumping in to slow things down either.

Which leads me to two points that I cannot quite relate to this story or to each other. The first is that everybody has an agenda. Major companies, you, me, we all do things for a reason. Sometimes the reason is habit, sometimes it is underhanded and manipulative, and sometimes it is what we feel is in "everyones'" best interest. Why are some agendas so much easier to accept? Why is it easier to let a nosey coworker whisk you away on a journey you shouldn't have taken than it is to let the nosey government do the same? Is it purely a matter of size and scope? Is it the fear of vast number of agendas at work in a government or a corporation (as a whole) as opposed to an individual? Or is there something I'm missing?

The second point is about peer pressure. I think I pose as unsusceptible to peer pressure. (I think a lot of people do.) I'm starting to think that posing as such, is a reaction to a pretty high susceptibility to the power of suggestion. Yet, by posing as unsusceptible to the very thing that I'm afraid I'm susceptible to seems to make me unsusceptible to it, right? So do I win? Is this like dressing for success? Or have I lost? Instead of thinking things through, I react counter to the suggestion, once again rendering something (this post) useless?

I don't want your MTV
I think having no TV reception makes me want less.
It may also contribute to my desire to shower more. Or that could be dirtiness.

Is Tuesday the new Sunday?
Tuesday night is a great opportunity to catch up on my email and letter-writing, but I don't have enough good stuff to say.

Maturity-Immaturity
This past weekend, I joined seven of my dear friends for a day of amusement at Paramount King's Dominion. At least one didn't like heights, and probably all of us have been known to "lovingly" disagree on more than one occasion. Recipe for disaster? No sir, not today. Following the example of "Positive Girl," we had fab-o-lous summer fun. As far as I know, everyone had a coaster buddy whenever they needed one, we got to ride nearly everything we wanted to, and we ate dinner moments before anyone was so hungry they might do something foolish. Amazing, and amusing.

Again
There are moments in life that serve as markers for the dawning of a new age. The first backpack, the first drive-thru window, the first hand-hold, the first sleepover, the first time chocolate milk is made in the mouth.

The first time chocolate milk is made in the mouth? Yes. One part milk unswallowed. The head tilts back as the chocolate pours into the open mouth, the shallow puddle of milk awaiting its arrival. A little of the chocolate may reach a taste bud and delight it; the sign to stop the syrup and close the mouth. Proceed to high pressured in-mouth swishing. Use the tongue to collect any leftover chocolate before a second round of high pressure swishing. Then let the nectar of the cow gods and the cocoa beans slowly wash away the years of of building cynicism. Emerge renewed. Yessss.

In the end, is it the things we say or don't say that will haunt us the most?

Mid-20
Time travel back to Aug. 6, 1994
Dave has gone to visit David.

'94 David has just finished a run in Happy Rock park. He's soaked in sweat, but relatively happy with the start of another Cross Country season.

'04 Dave can't help but admire his big beautiful curly hair. It's so big. It's so messy.

'94 David notices balding, oddly-familiar looking man staring at him.

'04: Hey. I'm you 10 years from now.
'94: Yea?!
What's it like?
'04: It's a different kind of lonely.
'94: But I turn out ok? I mean you look ok...except for the hair.
'04: You've got 8 or so more years with that, grow it big man. The Wall will rise.
'94: The Wall?
'04: You'll find out soon enough.
'94: What am I like?
'04: Never an easy question... A glimpse 10 years from now- you'll (we'll?) be sitting at your Macintosh computer writing. You'll sip water off your back, cause you're thirsty from a run. You're training for a marathon. You're waiting for some friends you've had for a while to go out for dinner or something.
'94: I can see it.
'94: Where am I?
'04: It's more fun if you don't know.
'94: Huh.
'04: I got to go.
'94: See you in 10.
'04: Right on, kid.

Davefoolery in the kitchen
The key ingredient of any dish is sex, or am I getting my adages mixed up? Just in case, I have been known to cook topless. It not only bumps up the culinary sex appeal, but it makes cooking a high risk activity, I daresay extreme.

The dish for this evening was SPAM Denver biscuit souffle. Rather than bore you with the ingredients, I’ve decided to dedicate this space to a short quiz.

Which was most disgusting?

a)when the SPAM pus splattered on my bare chest as I removed it from the can?

b)when my keen kitchen-sense decided separating an egg would be a task that should take place in my left hand?

c)picturing me cooking topless?

I hope you have vivid imaginations.

It all could've been different
*Do not read the following as regret that I do not have a cell phone. There might be regret, but it's not for a damn phone, I'll tell you that.

If I'd had a cell phone, I imagine the Metro public transportation conversation would have gone something like this:

Woody Woodpecker theme song ring
Me: "Hello?"
Monika:"Hey. It's Monika. Guess where I am?"
Me: "Uh."
Monika: "Look to your left."
(I look.)
Monika: "I'm on the other train! I see you! I never see you on the train!"
Me: (clicking noise made with mouth) "There you are."
Monika: "I know! I thought you'd appreciate that."
Me: "I do."
Monika: "How are you?"
Me: "I'm ok. You?"
Monika:"Ok. What's new?"
Me: "You see me, right?"
Monika: "Yes."
Me: "Do you see the girl sitting in front of me?"
Monika: "With the short hair?"
Me: "Yes. (pause) Do you think she's cute? Because I've been sitting on this delayed train for almost 40 minutes and I can't think of anything to say to her. I thought I could say something about the book she was reading, but that seemed lame somehow. My ideas only got lamer from there. So I said nothing."
Monika: "Until now you mean?"
Me: "Yea. She's looking at me kinda funny. I better go. Talk to you later."

Eh. No phone.
It's like I learned nothing from Harold and Kumar.

You know kids, I once trained with an Olympian
Congratulations to Mizzou-alum Derrick Peterson for making it to the Olympics!

oh me oh my, the adrenaline rush
Did you know you can get toothpaste in "Extreme Herbal Mint" flavor?
Who wants extreme herbs? Extreme gnomes? How far are we from Extreme prune juice? For extreme incontinence, of course. I'm willing to wager- not far enough.

Dancing about Geometry
Some people have magical feet. The music starts and they move with such an incredible grace and fluidity. I saw this older couple last night dancing to the Radio King Orchestra. She looked as if she had just put down her oxygen tank and he didn't look too much better off, but when the trumpet sounded- they were 20 if they were a day. Her feet moved in patterns I couldn't trace and he kept right up, a smile on both their faces.

Good dancers are exciting to watch. And while my grandma would tell you that it isn't like it used to be, good dancers are good dancers. The footwork isn't the same, but the gyrating, pulsating, or break-dancing can still be a joy to watch.

I'm convinced that the real key to good dancing is the smile. Great dancing takes moves and footwork, but good dancing- the fun kind- just takes a smile backed by confidence. I offer music videos as my evidence. In many music videos there is the lead singer/dancer supported by 8 or so back-up dancers. When 9 people do the same move, it becomes a legitmate dance move. Argue with me if you want, and I'll point you to the Macarena.

You don't have 8 back-up dancers? That's why you need the smile. If you're having a good time with your dance move and it isn't hurting anybody else, I say "good show." It's fun to watch people having a good time. It's fun to watch good dancing. Transitive property. To the beat ya'll!

Chewable and fruit-flavored
As you may or may not know, I am 26 years old. I am not the oldest person I know. I am not the oldest person I work with. I am not even the oldest one in my group of friends, which I am now going to lovingly dub "Dave and The District 9". It won't stick, but I had a point. It just wasn't particularly sharp. It's around here somewhere. Under the couch, buried in the dust between the keys- AHA! There it is- I have become an annoying 26. I have become "It'll-get-better" guy.

"It'll-get-better" guy knows what you're going through. He went through it once too, and he's proof that you will survive. Look at him, he's happy, well-adjusted, and he buys fancy cheese for pleasure, for pleasure. He is too young to be persnickety and too old to be reckless. And he dispenses cliched wisdom like it's candy. Stay away from him, for his good, for your good, for the good of everyone that needs to figure it out on their own.

Heed my warning. (There he goes again. jerk.)

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.