Super Techno-wizard jargon debunked and/or mocked
I'm shopping for a digital camera. Being a curmudgeon-in-training, I have quickly come to realize that the tech-speak gives me a headache. In order to make light of my inability to care about important technology that will revolutionize my picture-taking experience I will now mock some of the terminology that I don't know or understand.

megapixels: not just giant dots anymore, megapixels are like calories, the more you have the better you feel, as long as your megapixels aren't empty megapixels. Nobody wants that.

Optical zoom: Picture Grover (not Cleveland)going near and far. Now picture his eye. Now picture an eight ball over his pupil. Punk Sesame Street characters with their personal expression.

Digital zoom: This is the sound your favorite techno band makes when the crowd gets really rowdy and they have to leave in a hurry. Either that or it's the sound robot toddlers make when they are playing with their miniature digital cars. Why does my camera need this sound?

NIMH batteries: These are batteries powered by brilliant, though misunderstood rats. They don't last as long as Lithium batteries, nor do they provide 1.21 Jiggawatts, but you're not running a flux capacitor here.

Flux Capacitor: Uncommon on today's digital cameras, but it's what makes time travel possible.

LCD screen: This is where you watch all the kids taking their LCD. It's trippy, but the bigger the screen the clearer the trip will be.

Film: Glaringly absent from the entire digital camera phenomenon. Kodak is pissed, but you will now have the not unique and mind-numbing ability to shoot hundreds of pictures and then share them with your friends with little thought to cost or quality. (Not that anyone you know would do that.)

And thusly, chanting my favorite piece of non-advice "Ignore unsolicited advice" I managed to keep my big yammer shut and not offer advice that was not asked of me

More thoughts from the road:

*To me road trips are about past-- so much reminds me of what has already happened. The waking up to the sun reflecting off of snow was a friendly reminder of the good times I had in the longest winter of my life. The red-roofed building, a reminder of a Stuckey's joke I never quite got. The music blaring requires that I recall so many road trips from before to N'awlins, Chicago, Toronto, and more. The times I was stuffed like like a sardine in a teal Mustang, or had no one riding shotgun as I headed to see Elvis. It reminds me of mountains and emotional valleys that I have since driven away from, but always seem to be driving toward.

*It's also about present. About the realization that certain people hug like they have something to prove and certain people hug like they have something to give and certain people hug like they need to borrow a little bit of your love and you should let them. About the fact that when you say "good sense of humor" you actually mean "laughs at my jokes." And the fact that there is a whole different world out there and it's best not to forget it. Because somehow you need to remember that far apart is not always spacious and grown-up is not always suffocated by responsibility. It's ok if vegetarians eat meat and it's ok if two people want to rush back into love. It's ok to camp out in the living room near a creek, Dawson's, because vacation is what you make it.

I have seen the SPAM
and it is glorious. While it's true that I seem to have an affinity for the cult-favorite processed meats, I would think that anyone* would enjoy the SPAM museum. I spent 2 hours there. It seemed to me that most people were done in 35 minutes. Go figure. Although the SPAM exam was a bit of a thrill, I think my favorite tidbit was The SPAM girls. We just don't have enough traveling shows with singing and dancing to promote products anymore. The SPAMettes seemed kind of interesting too. Like the lady said, "There are thousands of female quartets, but we're the only ones that sing about SPAM." The best part of all though, FREE ADMISSION. The SPAM museum gets my seal of approval.

Thanks SPAMtown, USA!





*In this case anyone should like SPAM, SPAM advertising, and Hormel (whether you say it Hormel or HorMEL, you know you're right...)

The SPAM museum IS SO a vacation destination
I'm on vacation. I'm going to the SPAM museum. If I get free samples, I'm stuffing them in my pockets and everyone I know is getting some because never before has my vacation destination caused such an adverse reaction. Not even the Rhode Island-Delaware combo with the side of Newark-Newark caused this kind of stir.

On my trip I am making a few other non-SPAM related stops. I am currently impersonating Kristin in the Quad City area. It's a good gig. There will probably be more on that later. For now, I'll share some of my thoughts on the first leg of my road trip.

-Rest areas have wireless Internet, now? Because you can't rest without the Internet.

-Kum & GO? Seriously? Is this convenience porn?

-Driving in the Midwest makes me think I'm headed to one of two destinations: University of Missouri-Columbia or the Rocky Mountains. It's strange when I'm not.

-I used to think everyone on the road was headed to MU with me, now I look at cars and wonder where they could possibly be going. There's a metaphor in there, I'm sure of it.

-Road trips are doing nothing with a destination. There's something deeper in there too.

I'll try to shake some more out and sing more songs in falsetto tomorrow.

SPAM. SPAM. SPAM. SPAM.

Ways my life is not like my fuzzy recollection of the Dukes of Hazzard
1. The only woman in town is neither my cousin nor wearing short-shorts.

2. My brother and I don't live together. The man I live with almost never slides across the hood of his car (at least not when I'm around).

3. The law is not a fat man; though it may or may not be as incompetent.

4. I do not enter my car through the window. No one I know does this. Which begs the question: What's the point of growing up if you don't enter your car through the window?

5. I can't remember the last time I tried to jump a crick 'cause the bridge was out. For that matter, I haven't run from the law in quite some time either.

6. My uncle does not wear overalls or drive a jeep or possibly run moonshine.

7. I do not know anyone named Ennis.

8. The narrator is conspicuously absent.

9. The line between good and evil is not so easy to distinguish outside of Hazzard County.

10. I don't have cool music nor does life freeze right before I'm about to find myself in a whole heap a trouble.

...and she has to be animated...
I'm not looking for Ms. Perfect, more like...
Elastigirl. It's a stretch, I know...

"It's kind of like an unofficial college holiday"
When did green beer go out of fashion? I don't remember ever hearing so many (at least 2) people (or was it publications?) rail against green beer. Is it the town? Or has green beer gone the way of jalepeno pepper Christmas lights? Why it seems like just yesterday you couldn't have a party* without either and now look at this place.

*I've never been to a party with either as far as I can recall. It felt poetic. Happy St. Patrick's Day. If you've got Irish in you, let it out.

Avril Lavigne: gateway drug
It could be a coincidence, sure. At about the time that I snagged my first Avril album (Wait. Have there even been others? That answers your query, Clare.) I started to realize that there was a whole lot of music out there. I assume some part of me already knew that fact, seeing as I had multiple friends with CD case upon CD case, but I had always managed quite nicely on less than 25 CDs. Suddenly, it occurred to me that the world was more than SK8r boi and what the radio was feeding me.

Fast forward to today where I now consume what the Listening rack at the local independent bookstore is feeding me. (Still with quite a bit of restraint compared to some.) Today's entrees are a fun bluegrassy, folksy, female-driven The Ditty Bops and Petra Hayden sings the Who Sell Out. I'm not much of a The Who fan. The Who? Exactly. has often been my motto, although I suppose I did name a snowboard after a rock opera that I'd never seen, but that is neither... Right. So this Petra character sings the whole album, a live album from what I'm told. When I say the whole album, I mean everything. This is an acapella version of The Who Sell Out , all the drums, the guitars, the-one-can only-imagines-what-The Who-plays all sung by Petra. When I first heard it, I found out that I did know one song, "I can see for Miles and Miles," but basically through the whole unfamiliar album I didn't know whether I was supposed to laugh or be moved. I kind of like that in a CD and I couldn't get it out of my head, so today I bought it. I can't decide whether to laugh or praise it for being beautiful. Maybe I should ask Avril.

The more things change, the hungrier I get?
For those of you just tuning in, or looking at blog trends, the last 17 days for me went something like this: search for meaning, forgetfulness, self-confidence/food/weather, vanity, music, video games, "Nobody mocks harder," frustration/dreams, weather, frustration/escape, nostalgia, food.

I'm detecting some trends here. Let's compare it to the same time period last year: Hilary Duff, DE poetry, blogs, voting, CVS girl, action, Saturday AM, Grand Canyon/girl, laughs, "YOU CAN'T HAVE MY PANTS!" TV on DVD, interview with myself.

The year before that: musical prepositions, Mr. Rogers died, friends, grumpiness, Avril Lavigne, "My life has more bells and whistles." elevator etiquette, war, mix tapes, awkwardness, sister's growth.

Hmm. Very interesting. (That's what you say when you don't know what else to say. If you really don't know what to say, extend your "r" in the "very" and speak slower. Like this: verrrrrry interesting. It makes you seem more thoughtful and/or stupid. It's a crap shoot, really.)

The burrito that's killing my brain cells
My burrito, so carelessly wrapped in foil. First it’s a shiny silver gift. Then an ice cream cone. Soon a spicy hot forty in a soft silver bottle. Walk with a weave, as rice and peppers and little bits of chicken fall to the ground. At least the ones that don’t get stuck in my beard. I’m saving the scraps and ruining my breath. I burrow deeper into the cylinder of faux-Mexican meal on the move. Savagely biting at what’s already dead. The weave of my walk is but a drunken burrito stupor. The last unpleasant scraps are slurped as chewing has become too much like thinking and both I eschew. I wad up the wrapping, the cone, the bottle, the foil, the trash. It’s a tiny misshapen ball, remnants of a meal squished between a malleable metal. Crumpled and useless it lands in a barrel as I stumble on toward home. The motion sensor lights announce my arrival as I make my way straight for the car. Climbing, I lie face up on the roof. For what better use of an auto than as a metal mattress with a perfect view of the sky and telephone wires. This is not where I usually take my respite, but then I’ve never been bombed on a burrito.

With respect to the author, Ms. Olson, I offer up a little inspiring bit of nostalgia. Hope she doesn't mind, wherever she may be.
I found this going through some zip disks. It still gets me right *here*.


Let’s say there’s this bunch of kids that you know.
Maybe you even met them once upon a time in what you now
know will one day soon be a faraway land.
And perhaps you knew the moment you stepped into the world
they share that these kids were like nothing you’d ever
seen before.
Probably even like nothing you’d ever see again.
They are the artists of a generation that has been said to have no
direction, no defining characteristics, no real purpose.
But you realize upon introduction that whoever said that hasn’t
been to this world, and certainly hasn’t met the ragged
bunch of kids that live here.
They offer themselves honestly and without pretense in a calm
come-as-you-are fashion.
They are harsh critics that know what they like and dislike
about you within seconds.
But they are forgiving, and they won’t hold a grudge over a simple
flaw of the personality—they simply find you all the
more interesting.
These kids don’t really know themselves yet, haven’t had a
chance to explore, and most of them have seemingly no
idea of their full potential.
When they do finally realize it, they’ll probably scare the hell
out of the rest of the world.
These kids are not perfect, but you realize, as the old saying
goes, nobody is.
They have courage beyond their years—courage to find
themselves, to live according to their own happiness, and
to make their own ways.
Perhaps you wish that you had the guts to act with their
abandon.
They want to share every thought that occurs, every word
produced by their pens, and each melody that plays at
the tips of their fingers and parting of their lips.
To think twice about confessing sin, divulging desires, or
professing true love is unheard of, because these kids
live to tell a story.
To go unheard is to starve.
Maybe these kids are so talented and so bright that you have
been afraid to take part.
Maybe you’ve always been envious that you couldn’t quite
follow suit.
Maybe one day, you get brave.
You’ve always admired their world from a distance, and
wondered what it would be like to participate.
But you’ve come to realize that you’re never really going to
belong here.
But this doesn’t make you sad—not at all.
You’ve had your chance, had a taste of this incredibly unique
world, and that taste has been far from bitter.
It has simply shown you that you belong somewhere else.
So maybe you leave this world and this amazing group of kids.
You’re probably torn, because you know that you’ll never find
another place like this with people like that.
But you know that it’s time, that the decision has been made,
and that you have to go.
And maybe, just maybe, you will forever hold in your heart a
little piece of that world.
Because you have to know, to feel that it would be impossible
to forget a bunch of kids who have shown you so much,
who have taught you to perform, reminded you how to
play, and who have blessed you with the courage to
finally give back a little part of yourself.
And maybe most of all, you hope that these kids won’t forget
you, either.

Not even a good spectator
I'm so sick of watching Ultimate. I just want to play. I don't think I mentioned that I pulled my groin last week. It's great for say, having people ask, "How's your groin?" The attention is nice, but really it's kind of a private area; mine perhaps less so than some... Anyway, I'm tired of standing on the sidelines and wishing I could be in the action. I had three lovely weeks of running and jumping and now I'm back to stalking the sidelines and hollering. It's just adding to my frustration, actually I think it's more like multiplying. I just read a book that was all about the "things happen for a reason" schtick, which I totally buy, especially if the reason is postive and instantly gratifying and identifiable. When it isn't, like now for instance, I'm all about the WHY? WHY? WHY?

Candy quiche and the liquid brownies
We could stand around and debate the times and places where I may have erred in the kitchen tonight, but maybe you should sit. I can see (and still taste several hours later) now that shortbread crust is not the best crust for a quiche. But it said "Ready Crust" in such big letters.

Maybe ginger is not the ideal nutmeg substitute, but really they're both spices, right? How different can they be?

Timers, measuring cups-- those are for people that don't cook intuitively. I feel the kitchen. The kitchen feels me. And the kitchen likes. Me. Ow.

"I just felt like running"
Escape is my new four letter word. It's all I do. (Not that four letter words are all I do.) I get home, turn on the Xbox and escape into a game of football. I don't listen to the game, I'm too busy escaping via the radio. When push button football turns me antsy, I head to my room for some vicarious living through blogs- which is just an escape. That gets old quickly. I'm not sure if it's me, or the sites I'm reading, but things seem to be a little slow of late. So I escape with the closest TV on DVD. I'm tempted to start watching Buffy all over again. Alias doesn't tempt me in the same way, not that I wouldn't watch the new season if it happened to be on a DVD wiggling in front of my face. That lasts an hour or two and then I'm ready to escape into a nice slumber. Every morning I grab my hip Express which is just my Metro escape tool. After a week of hard work, it's either escape to the cinema or escape to the Ultimate field. Escape is a four letter word. It may also be spelled l-i-f-e. Can't escape that...

Old man hangs in
I've got to hand it to the old man. I had my doubts early, but Old man Winter has been hanging on. I thought he'd slipped away when it reached 60, but with the paddles to his chest his chilly heartbeat came beeping back through the heart monitors. This morning it was 50 degrees and for all practical purposes I figured the old guy was out. 50 degrees in the morning? That's like a closed casket or something, but the old guy ripped through the casket and turned the rain into snow and then with a mighty huff he sent the temperature plummeting 20 some odd degrees.

(Now between you and me, I know that the DC version of old man winter is a little weak. He's getting on in years, though you wouldn't know it from the way this town reacts to his dandruff and icy stares. In all fairness, I'm judging him by past performance; it wouldn't be right to compare him to a real winter. Compared to someplace like Texas, he's like Super Old Man winter. Whose comic book incidentally never took off. I digress.)

We interrupt this post to announce that there will be no more gressing for today. Tune in tomorrow for another exciting gressful post.

What's the written equivalent of shaking your head really really fast back and forth so that your lips flap around and your brain rattles against the inside of your skull?
'Cause that's what I need to do to get back on track. Any semblance of creativity has taken a major dip, even the old confidence shower didn't quite fix things up. (Bet you didn't know that if you twist past cold and past hot you get to confidence. It's true and you know it works because it burns.)

I'm stuck. I'm stuck. I'm stuck.

I had a dream last night. In it I was running a race, only I was so sore from earlier in the day that I couldn't get anywhere fast. All I could do was plod along. And everyone was running faster than me. In my dream I could tell they were waiting for me at the finish because we had someone important to meet. Someone important like Margo. Still, I couldn't go any faster. I distinctly remember my friends Monika and Matt commenting on how incredibly slow I was. At some point it became night time and all the other racers disappeared. I was all alone and running at speeds that can't even technically be called speeds, because that sounds too fast. When out of nowhere this car came along and nudged me. The next thing I knew I was in a screaming match with the female passenger. When I realized yelling wasn't helping the situation, I told her to take a deep breath. I took one too. Then I calmly explained why she needed to share the road, and why it wasn't necessary for her car to run into me. She saw my point and changed her driving habits forever.

There's a valuable lesson in there somewhere. I think it's don't race around if you have to meet Margo, lest you get hit by a car driven by a passenger.

If I had a radio station and/or Soul Train spinoff
The slogan would be: Nobody mocks harder.

You want to talk pressure?
It's half time in the Carriage House final regular season match-up between the Denver (smelly) Broncos and the Kansas City Chiefs. Both have incredible 2,000 yard rushers, with three games left in the season. Both have winning records, though the Broncs currently maintain the leagues only perfect record. The Chiefs lead 10-3 at the half. The Chiefs are a 9-4 team, but they are used to the gritty battles. They have won some very close games, and they'll try to win one right now. They are plagued by mistakes and a poor defense however. I'm predicting 17-13 win. Back after the half.

The reason his soul burns
The game was tied at 17. A fourth down stop left the Chiefs at the 43 with 2 seconds left. Trent Green, under pressure, rolled out to the left to avoid one Bronco and as another came near he launched a prayer down the field toward the goal line. At the 5, two Bronco defenders mis-timed their jumps. Standing at the back of the crowd, Samie Parker pulled down the prayer and then managed to get into the end zone. Parker will remember his third catch of the season, I have no doubt. (Except for the doubts that come from remembering that X-box game players don't really have memories.)

girl pop punk
They might not like it, but we do.
Melting into the wall so warm and pretty.
Just a flower watered by Irish creme and I'm
Waiting for some women to kick it,
not your bad mic banter you tiny Elviscostelloman.
It's not femme folk funk
Angry bald headed band with your distorted plan
It's girl pop punk, say it faster now--
it's girlPOPpunk, girlPOPpunk.
the drummer is appropriately mad
the lead, she's drunk, but still she's rad
that damn bass player, she makes me jitter.
girlPOPpunk, so angry, so bitter.
It's girlPOPpunk, yea yea yea
girlPOPpunk, come back for your encore
girlpoppunk, don't leave yet, we want more.
GIRL. POP. PUNK.

To the patron saint of Wails
The problem with such vanity is that when one tires of oneself, there's little left to say. Good thing there are photos.

Cheers, then
Self-confidence, what'reyou doing 'iding in the bushes? Come on out, then. Bring your lil' mate personal responsibility too. It's right nice to see you both.

City sludge
When it snows the whiteness never lasts. The streets quickly turn an icky brownish gray.

When I made snow ice cream, I ran out of white sugar and had to substitute brown, which quickly turned my snow ice cream an icky brownish gray-- in the most delicious way.

Perhaps I'm using the wrong search engine?
I don't think what I'm searching for can be googled. Not that it stops me from trying.

Mind closing
I had two epiphanies on the Metro today, but I forgot them both.

But it's ok to crush?
foot speed is not a reason to fall in love
foot speed is not a good reason to fall in love
foot speed alone is not a good reason to fall in love
foot speed alone is not a good reason to fall in love
foot speed alone is not a good reason to fall in love


It's so hard being this deep.

In a sea of human children
I don’t get to see a lot of children these days. We just don’t hang out in the same places anymore. We don’t run in the same circles. (No fair pulling this post out someday when I write about everyone around me making babies.)

The office was flooded with children today. In my day-to-day existence one hallway containing four children constitutes flooding. It’s not like children were crowd surfing over my cube or leaping from the cabinets. Then again, it’s not like my office is the home of kiddie death metal either. What’s that? Oh. Right. Back on track. Four kids can seem like a lot since I usually see, hear, and think about none. In this instance there were four little girls- one mildly bored twelve-year old and possibly the three cutest six-year olds on the planet. We are talking fist-flying, ninja-kicks-to-the-shin adorable. Sugar and spice? That’s so 1950s. It’s dancing Cheetah Girl time and also punch David time. It’s possible the surprise attack duck, duck, GOOSE got them riled up, but it’s not like I ran full tilt down the hall. I even let them catch me. From that moment forward I seemed to be the number one target for little girl aggression. I’m not a large man by many means, but I can hold my own against six-year olds, most of the time. It’s fun to have half-sized humans around even when they insist on the flailing and the kicking. Several times today I found myself enjoying their company quite a bit. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t allowed to do the Cheetah girl dance with a girl doll. I could bust a move with a boy doll. He was boy band-esque, big head and all. I did worry that I might cause some squeals or get the dreaded dirty look from a parent, but kids are fun. I wonder if men reach a certain age where they decide the best way to have serious play time again is to have a kid of their own. Or is that just me? (And really, how much more serious can my play time get?)

"Plastics"
It may still be the future, but I sure like when it's flying through my present.

FURNITURE metaphor SALE!

The desk I had in high school is catty corner to the chest of drawers I’ve had all my life. The mattress is on the floor and the stackable black boxes are stacked in the corner. This is comfortable. This is thrifty. This is me. Isn’t it? I could get new furniture. It could have Swedish names and Swedish lines. It could be all grown up and wonderful. It could be the new me. Maybe the Swedes are too much pressure. I could have some good sturdy furniture, my own box springs for instance. That could be the new me. None of these scenarios are impossible to imagine, even difficult to imagine really, but I want to decide. I want to feel like I’ve made a furniture choice even if that choice is thrifty. The path of least resistance is fine so long as that’s the path I want to be on.

By the way, the Naugahyde stays for a while longer. There’s personal style redefinition and then there’s core furniture values.

Some more things I miss about college
or I get this way when I play Disc golf with college kids on a campus

*I miss being able to watch the mating rituals of students. The mating rituals post-college are sometimes observable, but they seem generally sleazier, more jaded, and/or more secretive. There's a far more innocent quality to the pre-collegiate hook-up. Or so I've come to convince myself.

*I miss the outside. Outside used to be ok. It was a place to go away and get some peace. Now it seems like it's the space to go through between buildings. It occurs to me that this is partly my fault. I'll work on that.

*I miss "random." Everything takes planning now. Where are the organic disc games? (those are disc games that just happened rather than games with discs made from earthy materials) Where are the impromptu wall-climbers, the impromptu most anything-ers?

*I miss missing. (I've found other ways and other things to miss, so this isn't entirely true, but wasn't it neat the way the seperations seemed so imposed and then the reunions so glorious?)

*I miss the lack of a degree. I knew what I was shooting for and it didn't change for 4 whole years, let alone every day.

So they ask me, "What are the advantages to being out of college?"

One word: Freedom.

So much that most of the time I still haven't figured out how to harness it, but I know it's there and I know it's potential is awesome and scary. A lot of scary, but I don't tell them that.

Working from home without the work
Sick days are for sickness. Let me tell you how my dictionary defines sick.
1. physically or mentally unwell. Check
2. likely to vomit not unchecked
3. distressed or disgusted. I would've been had I done #2.
4. bored with something through having already had or done too much of it. Check. Check. Check please.
5. finding amusement in misfortune or in morbid subjects. America's funniest home videos was good for a while...

I'd say I qualify. Good, now if I can just get over the guilt. The hacking cough helps.

Hickeys will not be addressed here today
I'm sitting here in my VD best- lips tie, used car salesman sport jacket, black pants that don't seem to fit quite right anymore, and black socks, trying to come up with some sticky gooey confection of love that can shake some people right out of their blahvalentine'sday tree. I'm not doing too well.

Love without hickeys. Burgers without fries.
The farther away I get the more perfect it becomes. There have been moments, sure, but none like those. I'm not sure I even know anymore if what I remember is real. I can no longer separate fantasy from the memory. It was the perfect size, shape, taste. If I concentrate, I do recall moments of imperfection- things got too hot, or I got too full. Now, several years later all that has blurred. Now, I only remember the good times. The fun times, the way things were going to be. The smiles. The laughs. A love so savory it needed nothing else. It's almost legend now. My heart beats for it almost daily. I miss it. I crave it. I can live it without it of course, but is that what I really want? Life always seems to be missing something. At the the time, I paid a price, sure. But I'd pay it again, twice even to have that back, to once again share in the joy of a Booches burger.

I went to 5 Guys today. They have a lovely burger of their own. One of the area's best, I'm told. It was piled high with toppings and condiments. It was a fine burger in its own right, but when my friend turned to me and asked "Is it the best you've ever had?" I had to answer with a heavy heart, "No. That spot is reserved for another. My first. The greatest love I have ever known. The burger with soul. The burger that made me want to be a better man. The burger that I cannot seem to forget." And she said, "You're strange."

"Love will do that to you."

Still no hickeys
I find it fascinating that in a time that "we" are so obsessed with reality, we don't believe anything. Is it really so hard to believe That Pepsi Girl could inspire her own following. Some people are asking if they've stumbled onto a corporate site. We're so desperate for real that we won't believe a thing.

Once more with context
I want to talk about the context of experience-- how what you know and what you've done affects every experience that you have. I read somewhere recently that the reason years seem shorter as you get older is because the days become difficult to differentiate. The days don't feel shorter, we just don't try new things and so upon reflection less seems to have happened. Didn't someone say to try something new every day?

Back to the experience- If the experience is affected by context, then isn't every experience different for every person? It kind of makes me feel guilty for screeching, "What!? You don't like ______!" But is experience always affected by context? Here's the unfortunate example that has me thinking along these lines: The whole Buffy musical excitement was roaring when I moved to town. They (they being my friends) made me watch and I couldn't help agree that it was creative and kind of funny and ok, but not something to be so excited about. Until today when I watched it again. This time I watched it having seen all of (most of) the stuff leading up to it. I understood, liked even, the characters involved and it was something to be excited about. I'm not gonzo crazy over it, but again, my experiences with the show are compressed compared to theirs. How often is this occurring? And how many opportunities do we get to have catch-up experiences? Score one for DVDs?

Let's be honest, I'm just glad the tube has me thinking at all.

And,
She reminded me that pancakes can be a key ingredient to seizing the day. I need more reminders like that.

Pedaling on the edge of perfection
With day-old disc soreness from here down, I stretched and primped. I was preparing for a bike ride. The first since October? Somewhere during that hour of spinning through the streets, soreness slipped out and a smile slipped in. It wasn't the temporary kind brought on by singing dancing Indians or Buffy characters cut from that cloth, but the kind from somewhere deeper. The kind that says life isn't standing still; I'm not standing still. I'm pedaling just on the edge of perfection. Heart beats. Lungs gasp. Legs churn. Wind blows. Smile grows. Pedaling on the edge of perfection.

My superpowers: not so fully charged
I haven't really sprinted since August. Turns out it hurts way more than I remember. I'd say there is some work to be done between now and whenever. Let's hope endurance is one of those qualities that roars in pre-March lion.

It's time for some plunging
I'm not talking about squishy bathroom appliances here. I'm talking about grabbing on as life whizzes by. This wishy-washy stuff has got to stop. I don't want my twenties to be remembered as the decade life stood still. It's time for some serious button mashing. I'm in Mortal Kombat and I'm {this close} to pulling out the finishing move and grabbing life by the still throbbing heart.

I have no idea what that meant, 'cept "seize the mother-effing day suckah! And while yuze at it, you might as well take the night."

Also time for singing and dancing
Bride & Prejudice. I went in with low expectations and left happy. That's all we can really ask in these situations. We can also ask for good-looking people on screen. This movie delivers. If you are expecting a cat fight in the rain between Miss World and Miss India, however, this movie will let you down. The silly sweetness of the singing and dancing nearly make up for the lack of a good cat fight, but not entirely. My recommendation: Sing and dance your way to the matinee, ya cheapskate.

be vewy vewy quiet
It's a necessity when stalking Valentines...er...wabbits.

Egghead Dave and the Magazine
Tonight I ate at a joint called Eggspectations. I'm serious. They bill themselves as an all day eggsperience. They look chain-y, so you might have been to one and basked in "Le Cirque des oeufs." I am not making this up. I just found out that you haven't been to one, because they seem to have two locations in the world and they are both near me. The point I'm trying to make is that you don't go to a place called Eggspectations and order the Mango burger. It just isn't done. At least not on the first visit. So, I ignored my desire and went with the "Eggswhat?" Eggs-actly. The problem with every egg dish, save the 12 eggs benedict dishes, was that each dish came with eggs cooked to my liking. I knew I could get the eggs scrambled, but after that I start to get fuzzy on what eggs-actly my egg options might be. (You think this post is bad, you should see the menu.) Then in a fit of panic I have a Runaway Bride moment and become very concerned that not only do I not know my egg options, but that I don't in fact even know how I like my eggs. Such strong movie recall led me to believe that I should not order the scrambled eggs. Choosing sunny side up both because I knew the name and because I admire the optimism, I steadied my inner Julia Roberts. The sun was kind of runny and gross, which is why I prefer scrambled eggs, even if the whites actually went pretty well with the corned beef hash, honeydew melon, and potatoes. It was a strange meal and in the end I think it left me with foul breath, a funny feeling in my stomach and a number of less than eggsistential questions.

Black and white
In non-egg related news, I have a magazine whose cover asks in white type "Are dating services really worth the money?" Directly next to that in black type is "Trace your family tree."

It's all about the beverages
Napoleon Dynamite is a beer movie. Maybe not a whole beer, just 3/4. Laugh while the chilled glass bottle rests on slouched, now-horizontal hips. Toss back a swig or two and consider the dork within.

Slurpee is the new February walking drink. Walk through the suburbs where the houses and the trees both seem taller. Walk past the homes that seem to house the hippies who haven't quite turned yuppie despite the Audi in the driveway. Slurp. Slurp. Try not to stare at the thin pale woman cleaning her Mercedes to the twanging country groove. When was the last time I heard country? Slurp. Slurp. Flags and multi-colored shudders, snow remains separate from the abandoned sleds and "War is not the answer." The houses are closer, maybe older, and yet somehow more stylish. The porches are open, welcoming, but empty. Slurp. Slurp. "Hi" she announces with the confidence that comes from being 4. "Hi" I return, my cheeriness tainted by not talking to strangers. That rule was for the children, not for the bearded man walking up the street. Tell that to the mother who notices me, but seems to sweep her child inside. Slurp. Slurp. Over a grate it smells like oatmeal on a camping trip, which smells far different from oatmeal at home. The sounds of children playing fade to cars and the purposeful wander of the urban student. A move-in special, first month free, no thanks I think I've got a home and Slurp. Slurp. Slurpee.

It's time for some ads
My degree allows me to enjoy a whoopee cushion and some monkeys on so many levels.

I also found a new crush. She is the brunette in the Pepsi ads. Reuben says she might be 18. Sir Paul would understand. Or he would've before he had grandkids.

The Mustang commercial sucked. Twice. This fine ad parody, however, almost makes me want a "new" car.

Depending on who you ask, America either liked the Bud light commercial with the guy jumping out of the plane or didn't. For my money, more ads should have abandoned their chutes. I'm counting on my old roommate to fix that next year.

I nearly forgot to give a nod to the cell phone hold-up. The shotgun really touched me. In my mind, it went off.

Dear Bank of Mine,
I want to state for the record that I hate your guts. While I appreciate that you keep my money in a safe place thus enabling me to maintain the already delicate control of my mattress stability, that still does not excuse all of your other annoying mailings. Why do you insist on offering me everything under the sun? I do not want your credit cards or your special accounts. Most of all I do not want to convince my friends that banking with you would be a good idea for a $25 plastic gift card. Let's be honest, I bet I couldn't even convince your employees to bank with you for $25. You are so freaking annoying. I wish I had a mailbox that would chew up anything with your logo on it. That would be swell. It could have a little basket underneath to catch all of the little pieces of paper. I'd empty the little basket into an envelope and send the pieces back to you, or maybe I should take all the scraps of paper and spell out DIE! on my kitchen floor. I could take a picture of that and send it to you. Would that work out for you? 'Cause I'm thinking it might be pretty satisfying for me.

Turn blog drivel into silky schizzle
Don't believe me? Ask Snoop.

Just call me Great-Aunt David
"Hi David" I heard from somewhere behind my cube. It was a child's high-pitched voice, but when I turned around I found a much larger version of the little girl I'd expected to see. My coworker's daughter had grown almost two feet taller and the first thing to pop out of my mouth was, "My gosh you've grown."

I might as well have just pinched her cheeks, thrown my shawl over my shoulder and cried out, "Mortie. Have you seen Christina? She's so tall!"

Watch out Abdul!
I'm choreographing a dance to the Alias season 3 DVD menu music. I can't tell you much, but I promise there will be some shimmies and some great hand movements. The problem is going to be the big finale since the music is on a loop.

Application for my weekend
After two consecutive quite wonderful weekends with two quite wonderful people, I now find myself in the position of having a weekend vacancy. If you would like to fill this vacancy or a future vacancy, please fill out the following application. Thank you.

Name:
Supercool Nickname I can holler if needed:
Three items you will bring with you on this weekend:
Where do you see our weekend taking place?
Stated purpose of our weekend (think big):
Actual purpose of our weekend (give it to me straight):
Two activities you would like to undertake with me:
Please rank your preferred method of transport starting with your favorite: A. car B. public C. walking D. running E. sliding F. magic carpet
What is your favorite card game? A. Go Fish B. Poker C. Spades D. Canasta E. Break the Bucket
Do you see yourself as A. Fiscally responsible B. Rich and looking to treat C. Hoping for a free ride D. hungry ?
Complete this sentence Snow makes me .
Complete this analogy David is to pants as I am to .
Fill in the blanks A weekend is not complete without blank, blank, and blank.

Optional Bonus question: What is the likelihood that we're going to make out?



Due to the competitive nature of my weekends, you will only hear from me if you meet my needs at this time. Thank you for applying and good luck with your weekends. We do not discriminate based on anything that might offend anyone including but not limited to age, race, sexual orientation, favorite color, ability to make cookies, and/or english/metric system preference.

Hey. It's 2005! I am now accepting challenges
Last year, some friends and I traded challenges. They ranged from the simple "read this book" to the more difficult "Get a new job."
I don't think anyone met all their challenges, but it was a nice way to feel a little sense of accomplishment*("net removed") and say, "Hey. I did something you thought I should do." I liked that. I'm not sure everyone felt the same way, which would explain why we haven't re-introduced the challenges this year, but I'm here to offer you even more blog interactivity. Readers, I am now accepting challenges. I'll be happy to keep you posted on my failures and successes.

Let me give you some examples from last year and my results just so you have a better idea of what I'm talking about and how you shouldn't get your hopes too high.
1. Challenge: Get drunk, do gay karaoke*(I'll spell it this way if I must.) Results: Karaoke* Revolution doesn't like my falsetto and I'm still on the wagon.
2. Challenge: Learn how to play "Rainbow Connection" on the banjo. Results: I haven't touched my banjo in at least 2 months, but I mean to.
3. Challenge: Make salsa; hike the AT, read A walk in the woods. Results: I looked up a lot of salsa recipes, hiked a section of the trail recently and read the book.
4. Challenge: Call brother-in-law; have 10-minute conversation. Results: 15 minutes, no sweat.
5. Challenge: Ultimate lessons for all. Results: I can't even get everyone outside.
6. Challenge: Go on a date. Results: Maybe. Maybe. Ok. I did it.
7. Challenge: Find seafood you actually like. Results: I like flounder, but not sushi, salmon, crab, or shrimp.
8. Challenge: Write a rebellious short story. Results: How about 50,000 words instead?

So that was last year's challenges. Who wants to shape my 2005?

For the articles and the pictures
I don't usually read Esquire. I don't usually look at the pictures. Sometimes I flip through, find out the 10 things I need to know about women and then head right to Real Simple. That's the kind of man I am. Unless...

Unless, Scarlett is on the cover. Unless, she's looking at me all sexy saying in her husky voice "You will read. You will look at the pictures. You will start to melt and be short of breath."

Yes, Scarlett I will.

So I read and I look. I start to melt and be short of breath, when Scarlett's voice returns and says, "I think you should get out more and stop fantasizing about some 19-year old in a magazine."

But, but...

That Scarlett, she's so sage.

So there.
We’d met before, sort of. That didn’t give me reason to spew an antagonistic chicken-grease kiss at her cheek in a field in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I’m not sure how I expected or wanted her to react since I’d be states away in just days. Maybe that’s why I slobbered in such grand fashion. It was a sloppy hello. It was a liquid-y see you later. Except I didn’t expect to.

It starts to get fuzzy after that. She infiltrated my home in Colorado on her Thanksgiving break. The cold winter of my acquaintance-filled existence suddenly found a bright and lively new face and voice to entertain and challenge me in ways I’d never considered. She managed to jumpstart the dying lump that my heart had become. Close to Valentine’s Day, she sent me a package. I was in the car headed to a day on the slopes after my roommate Bruno and I swung by the Post Office. I told him to go ahead and open it. He did and promptly pulled out a pair of plastic handcuffs that said, “Take me. I’m yours.” It was a joke, but there was no explaining that to Bruno. He wasn’t about to let me live that down.

It seemed with her that life became an insane road trip. I think she’s still on it. I got to ride along through more stops than I probably deserved. One of my favorites will always be Hays, Kansas.

It was the afternoon on the first day of a three day weekend and we were on the phone. I was in Colorado, she was in Missouri.
“I want to see you” one of us said.
“We could meet in Hays, Kansas,” someone replied. I can’t remember who said what anymore. “It’s a 6 hour drive for each of us.”
There was a pause. Perhaps an “Are you serious?” or two. And then, “I have to shower. I’ll call you back and decide after that.”
“Ok.”

A shower passed and we were back on the phone.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Yea. We’ll meet at the Arby’s in Hays.”
“You’re sure there’s an Arby’s?”
“Yep. Aren’t you?”
“I think so. Leave in thirty minutes.”
“All right. See you soon.”
“Drive safely.”

There was no back-up plan. It was just a matter of showing up at Arby’s in six hours and spending a day or two in Hays. Logic had not entered the terms of our friendship.

It wasn’t that trip, but somewhere later that I realized I couldn’t keep up. I always figured she knew she couldn’t stop yet, anyway. So now I get phone calls from the road that say things like “I’m with my friend Liz and she’s about to run a marathon. You two can talk about marathons. Call her at (###)###-####.” Because it’s her and no one else, I pick up the phone and call Liz. That’s just the way it works.

I never know what I’ll hear next. Sometimes I get a letter with a joke perfect for campers “Two muffins sat in an oven. One turned to the other and said, ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’ The other screamed “AHHHH! A TALKING MUFFIN!” Sometimes it’s a postcard from the Northwest in code, or a bottlecap magnet that says “Clothing Optional Club”. Or a pumpkin pin without tire tracks. Sometimes the letter is filled with reminiscing, other times it’s about the new web she’s weaving. Ultimate, love, and life nearly always make an appearance.

It’s hard to believe I’ve only known her for a few years. And I’ve never known her to be in the same city, and rarely the same state as me. She lets me live vicariously through her. She’s got such guts, half the time I don’t know what she’s following, but I admire her for going after it, whatever it is. If anybody can track it down, it’s her. She’s going to be a writer, a nurse, a hairy-legged new-age hippy, a trailmaker, a heartbreaker, a wonderful mother, teacher, an artful student, a lifelong learner, a wanderer. She is one of the most fascinating people I know. And she makes me remember what it’s like to be a kid, what it’s like to be an old man (not that it takes much). When I forget, she reminds me what it’s like to think and feel. She challenges me to write and care and LIVE in all capital letters. Everybody needs people like that.

If you’re out in the world and you happen to see her, whether her hair is down to her butt or shaved all the way off, you might recognize her by her skirt, her smile, or her homemade Lady Danger Man Shirt. If you’re lucky, she’ll burp in your ear. If it’s Friday, tell my friend Amanda "Happy Birthday", will ya?

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.