I could get addicted to Physical Therapy. There's physical contact and special attention to the parts that ail me and talking about running and the possibility of massage and ultrasound and all kinds of good stuff.

I feel guilty that I seem to rent more DVDs than I buy books or CDs from the local chain bookstore. It's not my fault they have a split personality. It is my fault that I would rather consume and return than consume and own. Or is it?

I am seriously feeling the effects of PVD (Post-vacation Disorder) or PHS (Post-Holiday Stress) or some disease that relates to the extreme level of suckitude that results from being back to work on a regular basis.

I will probably feel better after dinner.

Road Warriors*
*Those of you prone to post-event worry, or those of you considering road trips with me may want to skip this post. Let me direct you to some highlights or a hilarious prank.

Sticking it out, are you?

The snow had been blanketing the road and the now-invisible countryside? cityside? world, around us for several hours. I gripped the steering wheel, tense and excited. My passenger/DJ/navigator/new partner in crime/possible last person I'd see on earth, calmly sat as she spun patient relaxing tunes/took over as my eyes/believed in me/possibly prayed; only revealing her nervous jitters, like her southern accent, when speaking to her parents. The tell-tale yet coded sighs had gone silent. It was too dark and too far to my right to see if any of the now famous smile remained.

As the windshield shrank and the wipers collected ice, I shifted in my seat, hands still glued to the wheel, trying to keep sight of the white road below me. For a while I had the last of a wiper swath to look through, but the icy build-up on my blades soon took that from me too. I rolled down my window to attempt an Ace-Venture-style technique, but quickly found that my face wouldn't stand for the pelting snow. My head bobbed and danced as I looked for some way to continue down the road without discontinuing our lives. It was like watching TV without an antenna (and no cable), yet Clare,my favorite reality TV show critic, was now crucial to this actual reality. With poise, she began to direct my efforts through her windshield view.

We made our way slowly, likely traversing across the lanes, though rarely slipping, as my little Saturn outperformed SUVs. I rolled down the window to keep an eye on the concrete divide. I saw no sense in hitting that. A few times Clare waved me in the appropriate direction, until finally we were able to wind around and around and around the longest entrance ramp to a New Jersey Service Area. We wiped off the snow and cleared ice from the wiper blades. After answering a call of nature, we returned to the winter wollop already in progress and continued our slow push south on the turnpike. In minutes the windshield returned to its near useless state. Without a trace of external panic, Clare and I went through the same motions again. I clung to the steering wheel, slip-sliding as necessary and pushing on. I rolled my window up and down trying to catch a bigger glimpse of anything. We followed the dim lights of a snow plow and any other real or imagined glimmer of hope I could find. Clare again bravely dug in, leaned forward and managed to point and wave us to a hotel near the airport. Cars ahead struggled at the stop sign while the Sheraton sign shone like a beacon above. Even after waiting nervously for the cars in front of us to right themselves, my wonderful car plowed on and skidded to a stop outside our ridiculously overpriced new home in Newark.

Giddy with life, yet exhausted by a trying drive we collapsed into a fit of yoga, snow angels, handstands, room service with a side of twenty questions, giggles, and perhaps the greatest collaborative game with a clear winner of all time- Break the Bucket. Not yet available in stores!

Four more years (gulp)
After the 10 inches in 45 minutes crawl en route to the pat-me-down tent, and after the Eagle scout b**** was unable to bully her way through the line thanks to a man more resolute than me, I finally got touched all over by a security agent who was slightly suspicious of my wallet and sandwich. He still managed to send me on my way with literally minutes to spare before that old judge swore in that presidential guy. I was too far away to see, although after about 10 minutes I think I figured out which speck in the distance must be speaking. I could hear just fine, but it still seems to me he pretty much said, "Freedom good. Tyranny bad." This is a message I generally support, even when spoken by a man that I generally don't. Despite my misgivings about this country's decision in November, I have to say that hearing a president speak with the capitol as the backdrop is a special experience. There's something pretty powerful about hearing words like freedom, liberty, and America echo around the mall. Several people called it a "once-in-a-lifetime experience". Seeing as this is the second inauguration for this guy and the third for this family and the fact that there seems to be one of these about every four years, I'm not sure I agree with that. Then again I don't agree with fur coats and I saw more of those today than I have ever seen before in my life. What do I know anyway?

Thanks Genie
I got what I wished for.

Freshman-year abs?

One thing at a time. It snowed. Which according to most of the "adult" world I inhabit is something akin to paying the utilities bill. I heard so many complaints today that I finally resorted to instructing people to move south if they didn't like it. I think a few were considering it. (I remember now why I so needed that stint in Winter Park working the chair lift.)

What part of your insides has to be dead to not like snow? It's so white and charming and peaceful and soft and fun.

In honor of today's snow I am going to list some of the great moments from my snowy (and icy) past.
*The out-of-my-door-into-the-snow-drift-and-straight-to-the-shower dive in Granby. Snow there was plentiful.
*The nighttime frozen lake Ultimate game. Glowing discs, glowing cones, glowing world.
*The neon green cowboy shirt WP snowboard run.
*The post-sledding dive into the bushes in CoMO.
*The bike out of FARC and down to the corner where I wiped out because of the ice, but then still had to make it to Hearnes for practice only to run/slide all the way there to find out that practice was cancelled. At least we got out of class.
*The day it iced and I could dive and slide across every driveway on the block. DIVE SLIDE RUN on the grass. DIVE SLIDE...repeat 10x.
*The Bill Carwin skiing experience complete with jam-packed Mustang, Psycopath Gully, and big waves of snow at every stop.
*Ski breaks.
*The aspens and the terrain park with Bruno at Steamboat.
*Bunches of ski runs on bunches of days spanning the course of my personal history.
*The year the spring in the backyard flooded and suddenly we had an icy toboggan run. Yea.
*Killer cul-de-sac snowball fights.
*The year of the 8 foot tall snowman.
*The Sectionals Cross Country snow.

There are more, but I'm stopping for you.

Follow that bird
It's moustache-freezing cold. I'm not complaining, I am just stating for the record that sometimes I should check the temperature before I leave the house without my gloves. And speaking of the temperature, the Ultimate News (you too can get the Ultimate newsletter by being a UPA member) is full of HOT! HOT! HOT! pictures that make me want to play Ultimate.
Real.
Bad.
Instead I'm riding an exercise bike and making my big goal be the return of my freshman-year abs. I don't even know if that's possible. That might be like asking for the return of my freshman-year hair. Both seem like myths these days, but I decided that if I could choose the return of one or the other, I would pick the abs over the hair. Surprised? I was. I bet you didn't know I was this vain. It turns out there is a lot of time for vanity when you run out of things to read. I'm not exactly out, but I just finished The Effect of Living Backwards by Heidi Julavits. I think I bought it because the cover reminded me of The Time Traveler's Wife (Great book, I tell you again.) and because there was a Dave Eggers quote on the front. The thing is, I'm not really that fond of Dave Eggers anyway and this is no Time Traveler's Wife. It's some weird cockamammy hijacking story with psychology mixed in for reasons that I'm not entirely clear about. It wasn't awful or anything. It just wasn't that good. Maybe it would be better if I had a sister, no, that's not it, since I do have a sister. Maybe it'd be better if I was a sister and was incredibly manipulative. Yea. Whatever and Spanglish would've been better if I'd had kids. They can't all be Garden State can they you whiney little...

Anyway, it's better than The Rocking Chair Reader which has wonderful intentions but turns out to be a poor man's Chicken Soup for the Soul. It was also far more readable than The Seat of the Soul which could probably change my life if I would only let it. We know how those things go, don't we? (wink. wink.)

In conclusion, I do not need a Mac mini, but a cake would be nice.

Thank you for listening and for supporting Bartles&James. (Do you remember those guys? Are they still alive? Do they have jobs anymore?)

Golden zzzzzz's
Anything can happen? Anything? Like a bunch of people can look really sleepy and make me give up watching after an hour. Thanks Golden Globes. What a treat. One thing I think should come from tonight is a new tagline for HBO. I can't quite remember who said it, but he called the cable station "Audacious, Provocative, and Essential". Cool.

In Average Company
I saw the latest S. Johannson flick today. It's average, really average. In Good Company is basically a two hour greeting card that says "Decent is good." Which is kind of nice, but Scarlett and Topher were just so very bland. Not that Scarlett didn't have one heart-melting full-screen smile. Dennis Quaid played well. He was above average, at least by Dennis Quaid standards.

And he's got to be fast
I also saw Hero. I am now greatly disappointed in my personal swordplay and calligraphy, and music for that matter. I guess they are all kind of related. Really, I've just been wasting the last ten years of my life anyway. I could've been perfecting at least one of those skills.
And what does Quentin Tarantino have to do with this film? His name is on the box. I think he just said, "Hey. Good movie. Put my name on it. Kill Bill fans will watch it." And the Hero people said, "Ok."

P.S. I nearly forgot the flakes
Tiny, white, nearly-invisible flakes falling from the sky. Big brothers, uncles, and cousins of these flakes could coat the world in a peaceful and charming white. These little guys will melt before they have much of a chance to coat anything. Still, they are snow and therefore rule.

I-70, AT, other unabbreviated items of interest

I-70 makes Lucille's heart titter
In my first drive of any significant distance in 2005, I passed by good old Interstate 70. For those of you that don't know, Interstate 70 has played a pretty big role in my life. I was born off of 70, visited my Grandparents off of 70, went to college off of 70, skied off of 70 in a series of spring breaks, and a couple years back traversed 70 in search of a spot to call home for more than 6 months. So when Lucille (that's my car) and I drove on 70 for a little bit today, I could tell that she wanted to go somewhere. She thought we were going to see the folks, or the arch, or the columns, or at least the truck stop in Concordia. Or maybe she thought we were finally going West again to go skiing. Heck, she's sat idle so much lately she probably would've taken Kansas happily. Sorry, Lucille, I said as I pulled off of the interstate. We'll get you back on the roads. Soon, Lucille, soon...

AT, where it's at?
I hiked the Appalachian Trail this morning. Yep. I was bored and I thought 2,189 miles, whatever, complete with two-handed "w" hand gesture. Ok. That's a lie. I hiked a teeny tiny section. What's 3.5 miles divided by 2,189? I'm not sure I'm ready for the AT. I had on a day pack and my back is still a little sore from my 8 mile hike. I was tired and hungry and I made up a song about fecal matter. The wackiest thing to me was that the sound of my own steps was driving me crazy. Not as crazy as the song about fecal matter sticking in my head, but that was much later in the hike. (The song was sticking in my head, not the actual fecal matter.) In less than 4 hours I drove myself crazy. What would I do in 3 months? I may have improved patience, but I'm not ready to be a hiker just yet.

Other items of interest without abbreviation will have to wait
They could include:
me and the movies
Jackie's is too cool for me
My continued quest to preserve the species

Somebody doesn't get it
So Triathelete Girl meets Triathelete Boy at a Triathalon. They live far far away, but schedule meetings around crazy long endurance events because they could be possibly, OH, are in love. Tri-Girl and Tri-Boy become Mr. and Mrs. Tri because they understand each other. I know all of this because The NY Times told me so.

As much as I desperately wanted to like this story, I didn't. I can't figure out if the writer didn't get it, the photographer didn't get it, Mr. and Mrs. Tri don't get it, or when it's all said and done I don't get it. Maybe you'll get it?

The day the music died
Well, not died so much, more like moved south. And it wasn't today so much as the other day. My favorite DC radio station went Central American, which is fine if you like that sort of thing. (And to be honest I have no idea if I like that sort of thing. I've got some Brazilian ditties on a CD my former roommate Gui gave me. It's in Porteguese, so I'm pretty sure it's not the same thing at all. That disc is ok though. Which should tell you nothing.) I'll admit that the now defunct station was known to play the same Killerz (?) song as another DC station at the same time on more than one occasion. And it really played the same playlist as the station winning out the alternative set, only with a few pieces of "new music" mixed in. (I don't know why new music needed quotes there. I'm pretty sure the music was actually new as far as musical newness goes.) So if we get right down to it, the biggest loss other than a piece of this town that was never mine anyway and a few new songs that I rarely heard, is that I can no longer easily scan between 99.1 and 99.5. Instead I have to jump from 99.5 all the way, that's right I said all the way to 101.1. It wears me out just thinking about it. It just got a whole lot harder to bounce between thug and modern rocker. You know it's bad when that happens, dawg.

like if time stood still.
we wouldn't need clocks

That's so 26
I've never been very good at those interview questions that ask "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I don't see the future. I'm trying the present for size and I've got to say that the moment I had in the kitchen was, at least for me, so 26.

The moment: Somehow I've totally ruined Minute rice. I know. I thought it was impossible too. I've just finished crunching through a few soupy spoonfuls when I decide to just give up. I close my borrowed copy of "Seat of the Soul", the latest read about finding meaning. I stand up and walk over to the kitchen sink. I put the rice down and pick up the last of the soup. I scoop straight from the pot into my mouth using a spoon, thankyouverymuch. I tilt the pot for easy access. As I am slurping up the last of the soup, I look in the window and there I stand in a button-down work shirt, a draft blowing against my exposed legs. The counter tops were shining, no thanks to me and Mud Pie ice cream was waiting in the freezer.

Five years ago, if you'd asked me, I wouldn't have said that's where I'd be. But what can I say? That's where I am.

I don't like the ending
Some time ago, we'll say spring twenty-oh-four, I ran into this little woman who had locked her purse-keys and all, in her trunk. She gave me her sad story and I bought it. She was very sweet and we walked all the way to the ATM where I proceeded to hand over way too much cash so she could get a cab ride home. Somewhere in all of our walking I started to realize that I was probably being had, but I couldn't fight the inertia of the situation. I still held onto the dim hope that she might not be a swindler. A few days went by and I didn't hear from her. I even called the number she gave me; it turned out to be a fax machine. At least it was a fax machine at the place she claimed to work I'd find out through some nifty research. No woman by that name, however, worked there. She won. I lost. I was pretty embarrassed.

Since then I haven't given money to anyone. People on fire saying "Give me a dollar to put out this fire!" get nothing more than a skeptical look from me. (Ok. I'm lying here. I think I gave a dollar to a guy who needed some money to ride the Metro, but I'm serious con men and beggars who might be reading this, I look away much faster now than I used to.)

The other day I was helping this blind man (that in no way relates to the story but it sure does make me sound good, doesn't it?) when I heard this woman announcing to people within earshot "I locked my keys in my trunk." As I walked by and saw her out of the corner of my eye she grumbled, "Doesn't anyone help anymore?" At that moment I realized that this woman is the same little woman who locked her keys in her trunk way back when. Suddenly a shot of adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I'm hoping the blind guy doesn't notice as I hurry him along, but I have to keep an eye on the old bag. I see her conversing with this younger woman and I dart back to break up any transaction that might be about to occur. I pull up short as I realize that the younger woman is not falling under the old bag's spell. Because of my positioning and their positioning and some other positioning, my presence sort of forces younger woman and old bag to get on the escalator. I'm two little steps behind a woman who swindled me and my heart is racing. I want to punch her. I want to tell her that she owes me money. I want to scream and yell and expose her. Only I can't. I certainly can't punch her. I can't prove she's a liar. The only thing I can see happening is that she starts screaming and all of a sudden we've got larger bearded guy "assualting" small well-off looking evil woman. Only the evil won't be so obvious to the general public. So when she turns to me and asks, "Did you want something?"
All I can muster is a very sweet,"No ma'am"

I'm sure that will keep her up late at night, her poor conscience filled with regret.

DSL works. Brain, not so much
Who do I call about that?

Why don't I Keira?
It could be that the recent flirtations with Scarlett Johannsen (yes twin, I'm sorry. No. no, I'm not.) have affected me more than I realized. Perhaps, my love is fading. Or maybe I just don't understand why I would want to hear anyone make pointless remarks over scenes of their film, even Ms. Knightley.

Add DVD audio commentary to the things that I just don't understand and/or appreciate.

Why DSL WHY?
Please come back to me. Please stop with these trial separations. Please stop with the intermittent dropping in. I need you here. I need you stable. I need you on.

Have I mentioned my teeny tiny towel lately?
Yes. I thought I had. Still splendid. Still revealing and effective.

Well that’s a FINE mess global warming has gotten us into
If you’re not going to make winter, then neither am I. I’ll wear shorts. I’ll drink lemonade. I’ll go for long walks and I won’t ask you to come with me. If you won’t bring me any of the white stuff, then this will just be the dark summer. That’s right. Winter is a distant memory. This is the dark summer. Remember the dark summer of 2005? I’ll ask my children. And they’ll say, “No. Silly. We weren’t born yet.” And I’ll say “show a little respect!” And then I’ll start to throw a shoe at them, but realize that would be mean and take a deep breath and say, “Well, the dark summer of 2005 was a miserable year.” Only I’ll say miserable like it had 8 syllables instead of 3 or however many it has. Like this: Mis se ra bu uh le. That way they’ll know it was bad.

“Why was it dark, Grandpa?” they’ll ask. “Was it a meterorite?” “Weren’t you just my father?” Time moves so quickly.

And then I’ll scream and say, “It’s dark because MA Nature says it’s dark, dagnabbit. And if you kids knew anything at all about history you’d know it was dark because it didn’t snow. And also because of the tilt of the earth's axis.” And then I’d fall asleep in my rocking chair. The great-grandkids would roll their eyes and say, “What’s snow?”

Sometimes it's funny
to overhear those gosh-darn cell phone conversations.

I couldn't hear what the first key was, but "The second key is look attractive, NOT SEXY, but attractive."

The evil Internet demons are looking the other way
So I've got to be quick while the DSL is still working and while the static on my phone line takes a rest. This gives me the opportunity to tell you that classical music makes everything sound more important, including cutting tomatoes, which by the way is unbelievably more exciting with sharp knives. Know what else is exciting? Teeny tiny towels. I kid you not. I got this Aquis towel that doesn't even fit around my waist. That's not the exciting part. The exciting part is that it dried me off and probably could have dried you off too. It's this great microfiber and now that I think of it, why were you showering without a towel of your own?

Clouds:Sweat if Sky:Shirt
There forming around on my torso was Jabba the Hut. He was on the move as two X-wing fighters were barreling toward him.

Best of, in the year of the Dave
The year of the Dave got off to a slow start, but finished with flair. Here's some best of from the year (and a secret hope that the year of the Dave can be extended).
Best book Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
Best wedding My sister's.
Best date/near date I'm mormon. I don't drink
Best impression Reuben as Napoleon Dynamite
Best life-altering experience running a marathon
Best album Eveningland
Best concert Hem
Best trip Grand Canyon
Best restaurant Mandalay Bay --Burmese
Best advice Ignore unsolicited advice
Best new pants Dockers Khaki
Best TV to DVD obsession In a close battle, I'm going with Sports Night
Best holiday I didn't celebrate NO PANTS DAY! (May 6, 2005)
Best holiday I did celebrate Turkey & Red Hot Jell-o Christmas
Best drink Not the "4th of July"
Best moving moment "Box Springs in the Sky"
Best show O
Best letter A
Best multi-purpose phrase teeny-tiny puppies
Best ability to end a list before it annoys me Someone else

Those mm's should have the doppler effect when you read 'em
I thought about jumping into some stranger's arms after I had deplaned. I mean, golly, it's been almost twelve hours since I wasn't excited to see someone. I decided against it, choosing instead to rub up against some strangers in the Metro. I'm kidding. I had too much luggage to be able to rub up against anyone with any hope of satisfaction. Ah Public Transportation, I missed you, pookie, yes I did; YES I DID... mm.mmm.mm..mmm...

Fortunately I don't have to go cold turkey on the human contact, er at least the contact, because I have returned to a mountain of holiday greetings; I just received a wonderful email from an old roommate. And now! And now, I'm going to head to the living room, carefully stepping over the gigantic post-Christmas mess I have created and say hello to my dear friend Jennifer. I've got two Alias episodes waiting to welcome me home. mm.mmm.mm.mmm.mm.mmmmmmmmm...

Giggles for Christmas
She loved cats.
While she loved bees.
She loved make-up.
Or so it seems.
As the paper fell from the gifts
peals of laughter, followed shouts
of glee.
The love of friendship
swirled through the room
lighting cheeks in ways
semi-mimosas never could.
Teeth shone brightly
smiles and knowing looks
danced amongst four friends.
Strange men watched silently.
He didn't smile. His focus on the big screen.
I couldn't help it. I was a fly on the couch
petting the dog
While the joy of the season
filled me in ways
cocktail weiners never could.

of on-screen crushes
I'd be happy to watch her read a book or speak to a bank teller, so I was certain to enjoy Princess of Thieves starring Keira Knightley. It was an awful Disney movie. I think the swords were made of tin-foil-covered cardboard. She smiled. She spoke. I think the swords were made of the finest metal and formed by the finest smiths. It was bad. She is not.

of college chums
I realize it is not all a blog-related phenomena, but I have to give some credit to the ease with which I fell back in with the friends I've already seen. It's like I went out to DUD to use up some points one night and when I got back everyone had nice looking apartments and real jobs. They'd grown up, but by some miracle not away.

of rollers
I wonder if trapeeze artists train on rollers. It's been a long time since riding a bike and being six inches off the ground have scared me so much. It's like an exercise bike only it requires so much more focus. It's like riding a bike, only without all of that pesky travel. I only fell off three times. 'Look ma, no hands' was not happening.

Here I come
Kansas City, strip steak-
Midwest cattle fed with Midwest grain
Welcome to the Heartland
Yum.
Everything is so far apart.
So suburban,
not less than,
well except in size and number.
Ann Taylor Loft
more prevalent than God
if you believe that sort of thing.
The shrine to me
is in boxes.
I'm out. Blue's in.
And I don't mind.

Patience is my TiVo
Why fight commercials now, when the DVD-makers will do it all for you later? Anything worth watching is going to show up in a pretty little box if you just wait. Then again, if you (the royal you, the American TV viewing public you) weren't watching now, I suppose I couldn't watch 2 years later. So thanks.

The Thesis statement
Thinking and a Meghan Daum book have transported me to the conclusion that I'm lacking thesises? thesi? thesis statements. Thesis statements were all the rage in grades 5-12. I remember writing down a thesis statement on a notecard and turning that into the teacher. After she had revised it and it no longer contained any words that my thesis had included except for the articles, I could begin research. The theory behind the thesis statment is not unlike the theory behind nuclear power. Oh, it'll go all right, but without direction, who knows where it'll go and who knows what three-eyed beast we'll end up with.

Thesis statements are writing's Zoloft. Words will be off in a corner, all anti-social and lost in their own thoughts, struggling with meaning and then thesis statements will swoop in and suddenly the words get it together. They start communicating again. They're socializing. They're getting on with other words. They form sentences and then complete thoughts and suddenly they're the life of the party. At least until the agitation, constipation, and/or decreased libido kicks in. In that case, it's time to turn to writing's Viagra, the outline, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The thesis statement has been missing from my writing for too long. (Sounds like a thesis statement, yes?) With no teachers around for revision, this will have to be satisfactory. Satisfactory is an interesting word. It's one part Satis and one part factory. What is a satis? And why does it need a factory? Could I use the factory at night to produce thesis statements? It's possible, but not necessarily supportive of my thesis statement. And if I remember college english which I took in high school, support of the thesis statement is the next step.

What am I trying to say here? I think that's the point and also pointed, like a knife. Only not one of those with a serrated edge, one of the pointy ones.

Which leads me to the conclusion that I may need thesis statements in my writing. Where was that factory?

SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY- It's blog-riffic!
or One and one half hours?!
I hit up party #3 just now. That's the third party in as many days. This was a neighborhood party and I was invited to crash by my estimated 80-something delightful neighbor, Yelpa. I had done the RSVP bit saying, "I wasn't invited, but Yelpa told me to RSVP. If this is entirely inappropriate, please let me know." The hosts didn't call back, and so tonight I planned to walk next door to pick up my neighbor and stroll to the party.

After an exciting finish to The Cutting Edge, I hopped in the shower to get cleaned up. (It was a day's worth of dirt rather than the drama of the classic '92 film.) As I hopped out, I heard Yelpa's distinctive voice in my living room. Thankfully, I had packed pants and a shirt on this trip to the shower. I waved hello as I headed to my room. After a quick change into clean clothes I emerged ready to head to the neighborhood party. Yelpa introduced herself to me and I shook her hand and said, "I'm David. You know me." I'm still not sure what that was about.

We walked a block and entered a house full of the neighborhood. There were a number of faces I've seen behind rakes or at the store, and a number of faces I'd never seen before. Yelpa bounced around the room greeting everyone by name and then saying, "This is my date."
I got some funny looks, but everyone was very polite. I made small talk, which as I'm inept at small talk often involves me trying desperately to not come off like an awkward psycho. This is usually accomplished with a slight lean in, an awkward smile and the occassional head nod. Maybe accomplished isn't the right word...

After the 900th time explaining where the carriage house was, and what a carriage house was or that we had met at the block party some time ago, I was starting to wear out. I'd mingled quite a bit by my standards. I probably met 15 people and held semi-awkward conversations with 6 or so. Quite successful. Except for when I almost made an old man cry. Yep, I'm a smooth talker all right. He didn't cry. He didn't look to be the type to cry, but I'm pretty sure I saw tears in his eyes. Maybe asking him how he spent his time these days wasn't the best ice breaker. I apologized profusely and he waved it off. I think he was happy to have the attention, but I felt bad. As parents started to pack up children to shuttle them off to bed, I started to look at the wristwatch in my mind.

Yelpa offered that we could leave anytime. I told her that the kids were leaving, so we should leave. She agreed. I walked her home, that is to say one driveway past my home, and then headed in to my cute little carriage house all full of holiday cheer. (The feeling, not the drink). As I entered Reuben looked at me shocked. It was as if I'd caught him eating cookies past his bedtime. Then I saw the clock. It read 7:32. I'd been gone less than 2 hours. I swear it had felt like 3 hours or at least 2 and a half. It was only one and half hours. "ONE AND A HALF HOURS!" I howled. No wonder Reuben looked shocked.

Now I'm feeling self-conscious
And when I feel self-conscious I like to get what I like to call, ironical, and possibly, if you're lucky stand-offish. If you're not lucky, I understand a shift in your thinking might take care of that.

Am I really going to turn this into a vehicle to comment on my own blogging personality? Isn't that a bit too self-aware? Isn't that a bit too annoying? That's right, I'm doing it again. What are you going to do about it?
I think I'll try and distract you before you can slug me.

Here I wrote this poem for you in sixty seconds based on the word "quick". Oneword.com, still cool after all this time.

Jack you so nimble
why don't you jump it
Come on jack
everybody doing it man
the fire burning
and I'm churning
come on jackie boy
be fast dawg
be smoove
be all kung fu, hi-ya
in your face
be jack man
be jack
be quick
Jack b quick!

I chickened out
I thought last night's post was going to be a more open, honest, in the moment post. I thought alcohol, sleep deprivation, and a sappy movie were the grease, but I can see now that I chickened out. Inhibitions are strong in this one. I realize this is vague, but I'm told that readers of this thing are no stranger to that. I'm glad I chickened out. It's a different story by the light of day. Not that what I felt wasn't real, just that what I felt passed as quickly as it came. I've watched too many movies and TV shows where a look or a fleeting feeling are enough to justify the insanity of taking a head long dive into something foolish- be it love, jealousy, rage. I've made those mistakes before, and I'm willing to bet I'll make them again, but sometimes things are what they are. It's not all about getting carried away to a land where emotions rule and I am but a humble servant. Sometimes it's about reigning that in, settling down, and letting the alcohol, sleep deprivation and sappy movies take you to a logical conclusion, which when I'm lucky rolls by in a scripted, The End.

I've got your love to keep me warm
Let me preface this post by saying that I just saw White Christmas, it's 3 AM and there is a 100% chance that Irish liquer was in my hot chocolate.

I always get nervous when my friends meet, even if they know each other. If they aren't used to hanging out, my palms get a little sweaty. It probably dates back to the days when there were fisticuffs over the Apple IIe joystick. So when things are nice and smooth and fun, I am relieved. Tonight, last night? what night is it? was fun.

In a not entirely unrelated note, I want to get dressed up and go out. Maybe I'll wear some ties to work this week.

Cleaning Naugahyde
This month continues to be legendary for its lack of excitement quotient. I've had to turn to human soap operas and rumor mills to squeeze anything even resembling entertainment out of December. I've taken three naps in fewer days. I've been to the dentist twice and subsequently eaten meals that only half my mouth could taste. At least it was different halves. I went to the doctor, a sleepy old man in a white coat, who only managed to confirm my suspicions that my leg would not need to be amputated. I tried to get an oil change, but I'm pretty sure I ended up paying twenty dollars to not have my car stolen. I suppose that's a good investment, but it does nothing for the engine; nothing except keep the engine off the block. I don't know what has been worse the rain or the lack of cold. Decembers should be cold. It's in the constitution. It should be. It'd make more sense than that other amendment "they" are proposing. It's not though, not cold, and not in the constitution, yet. If I'm going to be unentertained, I would at least like to be frickin' freezing while I do it. Nothing says I can accept boredom like trying to get the circulation back in my extremities. Instead it rains. It's like a giant slobbering dog is standing over the city. Go on boy, GIT! And take the first part of December with you.

95 years is a lot of living
My grandma turns 95 tomorrow. Her vocabulary is pretty limited now, since she had a stroke a few years ago. It's hard to tell how much she knows and how much she cares anymore. I don't think of her as often as I should; it's hard to do from far away when communication can really only go one way. That's an excuse, I know. I've only been around for about a quarter of her life, but here are some things I remember.

When I was little, she used to give me a back rub before I went to sleep. I remember being in the dark, grandma's chilly wrinkled hands dancing on my skin. I remember the pocket flashlight that was by the phone, the phone with its own archway. I remember the night lights and the way grandma's house could never be scary. I remember when she used to holler "shut the door" when my sister and I barged in or out or both.

At Christmas time, Grandma and Grandpa would always show up in an Oldsmobile brimming with already-wrapped gifts. There was nothing like unpacking that car. One year when they gave me stilts, I was completely convinced that it was lumber for my dad and only said "David" on the tag to throw him off the track.

My grandma was usually older than my friends' grandmas, but that didn't stop her from much. She was untouchable at those amusement park guess-your-age games. Within 3 years? Those guessers were lucky to be within 30.

We used to have the best doughnuts for breakfast and Braunschweiger for lunch. For dessert, nobody, probably not even the grocery store, had more cookie choices.

Grandma loved a good game of Uno with the grandkids, but her game was really Bridge. I never played Bridge with her. I wish I had.

Right after she moved closer to my parents when she could no longer handle a house, I remember spending the night in the empty house. Everything grandma was still in place, but she was so obviously gone. There weren't even cookies.

I did find some love letters. I sat on the carpeted stairs and I read how much my grandpa missed grandma. They were hundreds of miles apart for several more months. He didn't know that they'd soon be together for more than 60 years.

I can't go on
I'm frustrated at how fuzzy the memories are.
I'm disappointed in myself that I don't think about her more.
I hope her birthday is happy.
I'm looking forward to seeing her during Christmas.

Tom Robbins Interlude
Here's my favorite passage from the recently completed Even Cowgirls Get the Blues:

"Happily, your author is not under contract to any of the muses who supply reputable writers, and thus he has access to a considerable variety of sentences to spread and stretch from margin to margin as he relates the stories of our Thumbelina, of the ranch a douche bag built and--O my children, cock your ears to this! --of the clockworks and its Chink. For example:

This sentence is made of lead (and a sentence of lead gives a reader an entirely different sensation from one made of magnesium.) This sentence is made of yak wool. This sentence is made from the blood of the poet. This sentence was made in Japan. This sentence glows in the dark. This sentence was born with a caul. This sentence has a crush on Norman Mailer. This sentence is a wino and doesn't care who knows it. Like many italic sentences, this one has Mafia connections. This sentence is a double Cancer with Pisces rising. This sentence lost its mind searching for the perfect paragraph. This sentence refuses to be diagramed. This sentence ran off with an adverb clause. This sentence is 100 percent organic: it will not retain a facisimile of freshness like those sentences of Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe et al., which are loaded with preservatives. This sentence leaks. This sentence doesn't look Jewish... This sentence has accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior. This sentence once spit in a book reviewer's eye. This sentence can do the funky chicken. This sentence has seen too much and forgotten too little. This sentence is called "Speedoo" but its real name is Mr. Earl. This sentence may be pregnant, it missed its period This sentence suffered a split infinitive-- and survived. If this sentence had been a snake you'd have bitten it. This sentence went to jail with Clifford Irving. This sentence went to Woodstock. And this little sentence went wee wee wee all the way home. This sentence is proud to be a part of the team here at Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. This sentence is rather confounded by the whole damn thing."

If you haven't read this book, beware it is nothing like this passage and exactly like this passage. If you have, then you know what I mean.

Someone has a sense of humor
I saw a bus that had been in a wreck. The display was flashing "000 Buzzard Point."

It's the thought that counts
Real Simple readers will recognize this bracelet. I'm tempted to buy it, but I don't think I'm really at the bracelet-giving stage with anyone right now.

Don't try to convince me that we're at the bracelet-giving stage, please.
I think I'd know something like that. (If we are at the bracelet-giving stage and it's obvious that I don't know, please send me a bracelet and a self-addressed stamped envelope.)

Who's running this show?
When I went to high school, I ran cross country to get ready for basketball. I quit basketball after a day because it wasn't running.

When I went to college I had to live in some po-dunk residence hall clear on the other side of campus. I left three years later a bonafide FARCer from a hall that defined my college experience.

I was never going to wear khaki pants. I wear them almost every day. They're better than sweat pants.

I never liked walking because it was too slow. My daily stroll to and from the Metro relaxes and relieves me.

Some two years ago I started a temporary job in a city I didn't mean to live in. For a moment, it feels a lot like home.

Friends are good.
If you don't have any, you should make some.

Don't use clay.

The Apple Pie is probably enhanced too
Baseball is a disappointment. I don't even like it anymore but the news of steriod use still saddens me. I gave up sometime during the last strike. Baseball had its priorities in the wrong place and I guess now that the players and owners have agreed on money, they moved onto drugs. This is big, like a steriod-induced homerun. I'd like to think maybe it's just the big names doing this, the ones we've heard about in the news, but if the stars are enhanced, how are the other guys to keep up? I'm afraid to ask.

What am I supposed to think? The feats of inhuman strength we've witnessed in the last 5 years, turn out to be more than sportswriters prose; they actually might be amazing feats of drugs. I don't want to go to a ballpark to cheer on drugs. I want to watch human struggle played out on the field. I want to watch men and women who have worked and struggled to be at the top of their game competing against others at the top of theirs. I want to leave thinking that if I just worked hard enough, went to the gym, trained all the time, I too could hit monstrous homeruns or run like the wind. Notice there is no step in that dream that involves taking drugs. The top of the game, maybe the best ever are not titles that drug users should have. Don't these people remember the egg frying in the pan? They don't get to be the best, because somehow somewhere they thought that cheating was ok. It isn't. If it is, then that old adage is wrong, which I've suspected but am NOT ok with it. (Cheaters never prosper). And just to prove it, we're probably going to see Bonds get a slap on the wrist and another gajillion dollars to play next year.

America's pasttime is on drugs. Arrest it. Throw it in jail. Protect our children. Save America. Restore my faith in old adages.

Thanks giving, again? This is worse than the Oscars

In October and November, I’ve come to realize that even the huge, deeply personal tasks go a heck of a lot better when someone is by your side. You all remember October, it was 26.2 miles. And you’ll remember I couldn’t have done it without Matt and my cheering section. Well November, as you may have heard, was 50,000 words. The cheering section returned for NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. There are a lot of people who I should thank who have inspired me all along the way well before this November. For your sake, I'm going to stick to the people who were my security blankets and my sustenance over the last four weeks. To these people I’d like to give a special thank you.

Laura T. gave me a start by challenging me to write a “rebellious short story.”

Kella, who always makes me believe in me, had the guts to announce her entry into NaNoWriMo. She made me realize that starting was possible.

My parents struggled with the idea of quantity, asking, “Why not just write quality instead?”, but cheered me on the whole way.

My Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin Abby gave me space to work and put up with constant word count updates.

Reuben. The guy once pulled up a chair and listened to me read the first 6,000 words. That’s incredible.

Clare. Clare. Clare. After 600 words I wanted to start over and she told me I didn’t have time. Later when I wanted to quit, she said all the right things. She was the reason I could write 1,000 words before going to bed. She was the reason I could wake up before my alarm and write some more. She was the reason I pushed through the tough spots, the bad spots and the blocked spots. I survived the month of November, that storied love cycle month of mine, only by falling in love with Clare’s characters and carving out a special spot in my heart for her. So read her fine work The Partisan. Then if your eyes haven’t fallen out from staring at the screen, you can read Possibly Strongly Opposed.

My public restroom wall
Thinking about bathroom graffiti from the days of yore led me to the conclusion that poopers just don't pontificate like they used to. As a kid, I remember being fascinated by the words scrawled in truck stops and school stalls. These days I see stall-colored blobs of paint in a few places, but mostly it seems people just aren't trying. At first I thought it might be a result of an increased vigilance in anti-graffiti measures. Further reflection has led me to believe that there are now too many competing outlets for the brain dumps of old. We now have the Internet. THIS is the bathroom stall of our generation. If you miss the brevity and vulgarity, the Internet does have record, but it's just not the same without the fear that Big Dave might show up for some sweet lovin' at 11:50 TONITE!

Transportation questions
1.Is it just me or does it seem like trains create a different seat partner dynamic than airplanes? In airplanes it's like, "well, I'm stuck with you and we might plummet from the sky and die together so maybe we should talk." In trains it seems to be more, "I could up and leave at any time and/or we could be robbed by men on horseback, so let's not talk."

2.On both of my trips traveling south on Amtrak I have found myself next to women crying. Do
a)they know something I don't?
b)I make women traveling south cry?
c)I generally make women cry, but only notice it when traveling south?
d)I need to stop wearing my Eau de Onions cologne?

Why Doc, why?

Back in 1996, Doc Martens were all the rage. All the cool kids were wearing them. Not surprisingly, I was not.

Somewhere around 1998, I got a pair. I needed brown shoes and I liked the way they looked. I don't know if the cool kids were still wearing them then.

In 2004, I don't know what the cool kids are wearing, but it's not easy to find the Doc at the stores I've been visiting. I've been searching for a while as my shoes continue to disintegrate after five or six years of use. Today, I gave up. I know they're online, but I'm an old fashioned kind of guy who likes to try his shoes on before he buys them. Today I abandonded my search in favor of some new-fangled laceless shoe with gel in the heels. If we're lucky, the shoes will dance. If not, call the Doctor.

Promotional Material to follow
NPR fans and/or Mizzou grad Renny Mackay fans should tune into NPR tomorrow for his story on a marine from Wyoming who died in Iraq. That's all I know, but I'll bet a dollar that if Renny is reporting it'll be solid.

The "put that in your cornucopia and smoke it" post
I'm feeling extra thankful at the moment.

I'm thankful for my family. They came out here and put up with my pre-marathon madness and I couldn't have done it without them. And I'm thankful for the rest of my family because they're the kind of people you want in your corner when things get tough. I'm thankful for the DC area Mizzou kids and all the cool people (and bands) they keep introducing me to. I'm thankful for my Thursday night crowd because in the Thanksgiving of life they are the sweet potatoes. I'm thankful for my lunch buddy because she makes a mean sandwich and good conversation. I'm thankful for likeable coworkers and new work friends who share the day-to-day existence and still manage to be fun. I'm thankful for a roommate that puts up with all the gibberish that spills out of my brain and then makes me laugh. I'm thankful for 30 year-olds trapped in 20-something bodies because even if they move too often, they've got great hats, great quotes and great hearts. I'm thankful for my faraway friends that inspire me through their blogs, through their encouraging phone calls, and through their travels. I'm thankful for their moms who offer me wisdom for free. I'm thankful for old friends who hang in and hang on despite the distance and the growing gap of life between us. I'm thankful for November buddies who are too kind and too fabulous for anything less than fifty thousand words. I'm thankful for marathon runners and marathon spectators, because without them I wouldn't be the man I am today. I'm thankful for you because you're crazy enough to read what I spew into this space. Thanks.

There are certain smiles more powerful than Congress.

You've got to be kidding me

1. The "ERS" is burnt out at the local BORDERS. That means my neighborhood is BORD with books, music, and movies.

2. If it's good enough for Maryland's prisoners, it's good enough for me. My new dentist also works in the prison system.

3. What the BLEEP do we know?! is one of those movies that had I gone alone I would've been thinking, "Man, I wish I had someone to talk to." Since I went with someone, I couldn't think of much to say.

4. I watched Ultimate for 5 hours today and I resisted the urge to pop pills and play.

5. Thursday was a dotopian anniversary, so I threw a party in my head, but nobody came.

Sometimes people know just what to say
I was feeling pretty glum today. I haven't exercised in a while because of my knee. Work is piling up on my desk. I was thinking that I might just crawl into bed and try to sleep it all away. Then in my email inbox I found the very words I needed to hear.

It could have been my life, or at least my week, writing. The message was empty and the subject line said:

Are you just going to let me kick your ass like this?

Well, no. As a matter fact, I'm not.

(italics added)

Of teeny-tiny puppies* and video game violence
There is a violent video game that has everybody talking, even NPR. Nearly every day since its release, I have gone to bed to the sound of gunfire. The game is Halo 2. The gunfire is my warm woolen blanket.

Last night, I watched a few rounds of Reuben, Aaron, Brian, and Sheng play online together in real time. They communicated via headsets. After watching them lose a few rounds to the likes of, well everybody, I called it a night. As I was going to my room a chorus of good nights came from the TV speakers. In the wild interactive world of Halo 2, there are certain screens where everyone is in the "room" together. It was oddly comforting to have people across the city and from across the country wishing me good night. I hope from that point they went on to kill, kill, kill.

***In an aside, I think a great team name or individual name in Halo 2 would be teeny tiny puppies. That way the screen would say,"Aaron killed by teeny tiny puppies," or "teeny tiny puppies sniped by Brian," or "teeny tiny puppies beats down Reuben". I think you see where I'm going with this. "Your mom" would also work well, but I bet some one already thought of that. I would also like to suggest Vegetables, glass dolls, underwear and Satin.

v. v. bad
I saw Bridget Jone's Diary 2 tonight. I'm sure it has a full name, but I don't care. It was bad. At one point, nearing the end thankfully, I actually said out loud, "Is this going to end?" It finally did.

This movie is crap. I'm actually considering life-long celibacy because of it. Now, I'm not a Renee Zellweger fan anyway, but the filmmakers did their very best to show her looking horrible. They went out of their way to show every bit where she gained weight. It wasn't the weight that bothered me, it was the crap story, the crap acting and the crap musical selections. Mark Darcy could not possibly love this woman. Sleazy Hugh Grant's character could not possibly desire this woman, not because she was physically unattractive, but because she was so unbelievably pathetic, clumsy, and downright foolish. UGH! Rumor has it that Hugh Grant and Renee won't be acting for a while after this film because they need to take a break, possibly retire. I think they should rethink that decision. They need to get out there and get another job right away, before this film has too much time to settle on their resumes.

It's CRAP!

The voice of an angel and a band from the heavens
I think by now we have established that Hem is my favorite band.
Tonight I got to see them in concert. I cannot explain why that was important. It may have been a $12 pledge of my support. It may have been curiosity about the people that make music that move me. It may have been a reason to get out on a Friday night, or a chance to surround myself with other Hem fans. It may have been something entirely different.

At first it was odd, and not just because women I'd never met were talking to me,(for the second week in a row, what's the deal?). It was odd to see the faces and the imperfections of a group I imagined as perfect. I didn't know an angel could have tiny lips that jutted to the side when she sang. I didn't know the guitar player would wear orthopedic shoes on his giant-sized feet. I didn't know the bass player would be so sleepy, or that the pianist would be so hairy, or even what a pedal steel was. It took me a little time to adjust. It took me time to adjust to the mood as well. The energy of the concert, of the crowd, of the band was mellow. Even the "upbeat song" made me feel regret and loss in its hopefulness. I had to adjust to loving every song Hem played. I had to adjust to the incredible aspect of a band, not a band, but a BAND. Hem creates this sound where the piano, the glockenspiel, the bass, the guitar, the mandolin, the pedal steel and their voices become this one sound. The sound of sun rising. The sound of clouds passing by a mountain peak. The sound of life and all the hopes, dreams, and disappointments that make it all worthwhile. People didn't sing the words at this venue, even though they knew them all by heart. They didn't sing, because people came to hear Sally Ellyson. People came to hear the angel and her heavenly band.

I muse. You muse. We all muse for museums
Not as catchy as the original, is it?

The joy of rejection
I think you reach a certain age where rejection doesn't faze you. That age is 437, give or take.

My competitive spirit is not dead
It just hibernates more often.

Irony? What irony?
My background is in advertising. My television doesn't get reception and I'm proud that I miss all those commercials, not to mention those commercials masquerading as shows. Then something like a PBS special on advertising comes along and all of a sudden I want TV.
Can you hear my mind blowing?

WWVGOWH?
My personal barometer on whether or not a young star has staying power:
Would Wilmer Valderrama go out with her?


I've got to stop reading junk when I'm on the exercise bikes at work.

Advertising to myself
With no TV reception and no cable, I am not bombarded by visual messages encouraging me to change the way I act, look, think, feel, smell, or clean my shower. Sure, I get pop-ups and I see ads in the paper, but without music, without movement, and most of all without repetition, I can ignore those ads much more easily.

In the absence of such bombardment, I have taken to advertising to myself. It isn't as flashy, it isn't as loud, but I think it may be more effective and it certainly costs less. I take one sheet of paper, one marker (sometimes two), one piece of tape, and one bedroom door. I write my goal on the piece of paper with the marker, attach the goal to the door with the tape. Everyday I pass by the door multiple times. The goal starts to seep in. I barely notice it on my way to work or the bathroom, but it's always there. Seeping.

After a while, I think, "hmm. I'll buy what I'm selling."

Into the Dave Mingling Hall of Fame
The Dave Mingling Hall of Fame is relatively empty, which is why last night can make an immediate entry without deliberation by the Minglers Association. I was at a party, on the way to get a Fresca (the key ingredient in a Louisiana Sangria, so key in fact that after one LA Sangria I switched exclusively to the distinctive sparkling refresher with a light citrus taste) when I was stopped by pink skirt and number 58. At least that's what we had called them when we were sitting across the room. Pink skirt, Pam it turned out, started discussing marathons with me (she'd been tipped off). Number 58, whose name escapes me, chimed in with the finer points of spectating. At some point Anna joined the conversation and Jadwin, Missouri and the Current River made a conversational appearance. Through two Frescas and perhaps as much as twenty minutes we chatted; well they chatted and I got a word in edgewise now and again.

That never happens.

Unrelated Question of the day
Can passive agressive be violent?

Today I like:
-Autumn in the Mid-Atlantic
-Irish Breakfast tea
-sharing "pain"
-best friends
-bicycles
-goals
-photos of me
-travel plans
-showers
-stocking caps
-the t-shirt to sweater switch
-plot twists
-Jeff on "Coupling"

Who wants to go skiing/snowboarding in Utah this winter?

I meant with me.

I have scabs in places I didn’t know could bleed
or There’s more to this story than I’ll ever be able to tell
We’re past the half-marathon. We’re past the free GOO sticking to my shoes. We’re past the point where I believe Matt is going to reel me in. We’re past the point where this is just a Sunday stroll. We’re into the second half of the longest run of my life. The 26 miles for 26 years run. That one. The family and cheering section is going to be around mile 16 and it can’t come soon enough. I want a Powergel refill. I want a familiar face. I want. I want. It’s all about me and has been for more than two hours...

The leisurely stroll is gone. My pace has quickened to something in the 8:30 to 8:45 per mile range as I start to make up bigger chunks of that slow start. I’m settling for smaller holes when I dart between people. I’m bumping elbows first and apologizing after. My manners and my good sense have left me, but the throng of people urges me on. I hear “Go Dave.” I hear “Go Pumpkin Dave!” I hear “Go Pumpkin Man.” Gone are the thoughts of I’ll be your pumpkin man, (wink, wink). Now we’re running. Somewhere near 16, after I pass a flaming liberal (no, I’m serious, he was in costume- there were flames), I locate Matt’s parents and they point at my family. I turn and look and hold up my hand with my one remaining gel. My sister holds a Harvest Bar in one hand and the food that isn’t, the PowerGel, the most amazing stuff, in the other. I dart toward her and snatch away the gel. “Thanks, I love you,” I shout. (Those three little words will make several more appearances, usually directed at strangers or whole groups of strangers, further supporting a theory I have that long distance running and drunkenness are similar).

I plod on and soon reach Hain’s Point. Hain’s point is not very spectator friendly. A few kayakers with whistles cheer us on, but for only the second time that day the atmosphere is more run and less parade. The atmosphere is also more wind. I had anticipated both of these developments on Hain’s point. I had trained on the point so I’d be ready. Hain’s point was to be my bitch. In fact I believe the conversation in my head went a lot like this-
“This is my territory. Bring it Hain’s Point, you’re my bitch.” (Hey, EXCUSE me, I’m drunk on running here.)

I’m through 17 and making my way toward mile 18 taking full advantage of the point, when my knee seizes up. I break stride in agony. My face contorts and I slump to the side of the course. I walk for far longer than I’d like, my eyes surely telling the saddest story I’ve ever known. This could be it, I think. Hain’s point got me again. I’m walking along, assessing the pain and the 8 or so miles to go. Maybe Matt will catch me after all. I reach down and tighten the IT band compression wrap I’ve been wearing above my knee. I cinch it tight and take a deep breath before I try to break into a run. The first few steps go ok and the next thing I know I’m cruising again. I pass the medical tent and look at the downed runner being tended. I find a couple and tuck in behind them, desperately trying to feed off their pain. I stay relatively close until I have to move over to let an ambulance through. Even without the couple I’m still moving at an ok pace and the knee seems to be performing up to par. I pass the 20 mile mark. I’m down to a 10k. I can do a 10k I think both conciously and unconciously. I climb a hill and hit the highway bridge rearing to go. I’m on what feels like the longest bridge of my life. The sun feels brutal, but I’m passing people with ease. Later, I’ll find out that I was in the midst of an 8:05 mile, my fastest of the day. The crowd and the other runners were eating it up too; they seemed to be cheering extra hard. I was starting to sense the end, but a hill slowed my pace back into the 9 minutes per mile range.

As we dipped into Crystal City and passed the Pentagon, I unknowingly found the wall. Feeling desperate I told a woman in a green Cystic Fibrosis T-shirt that she was my best friend. My best friend left me 45 seconds later when my knee seized again. I walked for what seemed like ages. Several specators almost begged, “Come on Dave. You’re almost there.”

At that moment I hated my shirt. Whose stupid idea was it to put my name on it? I knew I was almost there, they could get out here and run if it was so easy. “Thanks,” I gasped. I couldn’t take it for long though and started to run again. I wound down and around until I could see the Pentagon again. I left the Pentagon behind, but found another spot for my knee to violently seize up. I walked along a bridge as people passed me by. I didn’t care anymore. Even if I walked this would all be over soon anyway. I had less than 2 miles to go. At least they’d let me finish before closing the course. I walked along for what felt like quite a while, before finding the energy to run again. I don’t know what spurred me, maybe it was the 25 mile marker, maybe it was my watch glaring around the 3 hour and 50 minute mark, but something got me going again and this time there would be no stopping. Once I got to the 25 mile marker, I’d spent 22 minutes covering the last 2 miles and I had about 10 minutes to get to the finish to meet my goal. Only none of that was clear to me then. I just knew that the end was close and it was time to go. So I went. I was a blur or it was a blur. Blurs were definitely present.
I don’t know how long I went before my knee started crying out again. I grimaced. I groaned. I begged my knee. “I promise if you get me through this, I’ll give you massages. I’ll take you to the doctor. Whatever you want!” The knee seemed to consider the proposition, or at least it didn’t seize up on me again. Perhaps it was distracted by the cramp starting to creep into the opposite quadricep. I recognized cheering. When I looked up, there was my mom, but I had no energy to see anyone else or the giant sign they held that said RUN DMA. I just pounded on. My knee screamed in a painful duet with my now attention-starved quad.
The chant in my head, the prayer to my knee and my quad, the desperate plea to my body soon became the harsh words on my lips, “COME ON!”

“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”
Every breath and every step,
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”

My head was down. My face tight with exhaustion.
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”
I passed runner after runner and had the vague feeling that they either thought I was talking to them or they thought I was mad. I really didn’t care.
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”

I charged up the final hill, I’m told in a sprint. I passed a few more,but watched as one young shirtless fellow exploded forward the last 25 meters.

“COME on...”

I crossed the finish line. intact. ecstatic. exhausted.

See

And they're off
I was running. This basically solitary sport was suddenly a show for thousands of cheering fans and I was surrounded on all sides by runners. The Hulk was to my left and I could see a pirate not too far in front. Halloween had not gone unnoticed by the marathon runners. Many still sported jerseys or shirts with their names. I went for a dave-o-lantern look in my orange shirt with eyes, nose, and mouth drawn in, the teeth in the shape of my name. Next to me, Matt was a ghost in his white shirt. Not 400 meters after the start we found our fans cheering. We waved, pumped our fists and cheered back, the task before us still entirely unreal. As Matt said, "It's hard to be nervous when you know you won't hurt for 10 miles."
We puttered along, content to follow the crowd and not work too hard finding gaps to shoot through. There was a lot of run left and it was far too early in the day to be in a hurry. We cruised along, up and down hills on this traditionally flat course. Some loudly noted the elevation changes were new this year. This early in the race and at our pace, it hardly seemed to matter. We passed cheering section after cheering section and unconciously fed off their energy. Tracking our time on my watch, I noted that we were off to a slow start. Still, after 3 miles there was a lot of day left. Ever so slightly we started to move. We started to squeeze between people and seek out space for ourselves. We didn't lose contact very often, pointing out incredible views of Georgetown, or the absolutely ridiculous shimmer of a thousand runners in front of us bounding along up a hill. The sheer volume of people was astounding and at no time could I see more than a tenth. I've never bumped elbows with so many runners. I've never thanked so many spectators. For 7 more miles, we cruised on, pushing our pace slightly, but fully aware that pushing too hard now could spell disaster later. We passed the Lincoln Memorial and a bunch of other stuff that I didn't notice. We nearly slipped on banana peels. We let Powergel ooze into our mouths, but even the caffeinated magic of an energy gel seemed dull compared to the buzz that the monstrous crowd created. The stretches where they weren't were almost eerily quiet, even with the shuffle of hundreds of feet.

At mile 10, we again crossed paths with our wonderful and loyal fans. They cheered and we smiled. It was so nice to see them on this very lovely Sunday morning. Even at 10 miles this was still just a Sunday run with 17,000 of our closest friends. Things were going remarkably well.

Within minutes of that fan sighting, I felt the first twinges in my knee. I turned to Matt and re-iterated our pact. "My knee is starting to go. If I have to stop, you keep going." He echoed me with a remark about his side stitch. I don't have the best sense of time regarding that day, but it couldn't have been more than a minute before our run together was finished. I don't remember the moment of separation, only that he was gone. At that time I still held hopes that he would catch me later. Now, I was on my own in the midst of thousands. The screams from my knee seemed to disappear at the next water stop. I reeled off several more miles under the 4 hour marathon pace, cutting into that initial deficit I'd created.

Heading up the hill around the U.S. Capitol, the back of my shirt was recognized for the first time. Running past two men, "Shock" and "Awe" emblazoned on the backs of their shirts, I charged up the hill (I suppose only marathoners can call such a gait a charge). As I passed, Shock and Awe called out, "You'll get there faster if you run SCREAMING!" The very quote from the back of my shirt caused the three of us in unison to break into screams. For effect, I also threw up my hands and surged up the hill, until someone kindly mentioned, "You'll need that energy later." I crossed the halfway point after 2 hours and 1 minute. My morning had just begun.

There's more? yep... It's only fair you suffer almost as much as I did.

4 hours 47 seconds
I don't know where to begin. I'll give you my chip finish time, in case you somehow think like I thought that marathons can be measured with stopwatches (or a little chip tied to your shoelace as the case may be).

I could start back in April when I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon. Or I could start back in high school when the shirt "Running is my life-the rest is just details" meant what it said. I won't.

This very space has already told of months of training runs and injuries, of 20 miles and no miles and daily struggles in between. I won't cover that again. I'll start last Monday, the day negativity was all but outlawed in my head.

Negativity may have been banished, but a swirl of bacteria or viruses or black magic entered me and re-ignited a cough and possibly a rash. It was a slight cough at first, but grew quickly as I sat in my cubicle of germs. By Thursday, the pained knee that had lingered two and a half weeks was a distant memory when compared with the assault my immune system was undertaking. I hacked and coughed and blew phlegm to places I'd rather not mention. I went home from work sick. I stayed home Friday too. I don't stay home from work because I'm sick but maybe twice a year, and oh what a time for this twice to land. Saturday, I was hardly better. The afternoon rolled around, my family was off entertaining themselves because I was the host with the least. I camped out on the floor willing sickness to leave while drinking a gallon of water. These were not ideal conditions for running a marathon in 13 hours. I said my old mantra, "I feel good. I feel great. I feel wonderful." I repeated it over and over again until I felt something in my sinuses. It was as if a damn was breaking and water could flow freely again. My eyes lit up. This was it. The corner was turned. Positive thinking triumphed. I was going to be ok to race.

Move ahead 13 or hours or so. Move past the sputtering sleep and the morning vomit. Move past the jam-packed Metro ride and the near bowel catastrophe and go straight to the starting line. The mass started to move as the crowd cheered. The running had begun some 4,000 people in front of me. It would be five minutes before I ran myself, before I even crossed the starting line, but I was moving. I had begun my very own parade of pain in front of an enormous crowd.

More to come...

Whoa. That's a long way.
I made it. Details later.

Today shopping for Swedish furniture fatigued me. Tomorrow, nothing will.

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.