In unrelated "media" news

I don't know why, but I think I would like it if I could get graphs from iTunes. I would like both bar graphs and line graphs of play counts, genres, dates, possibly even song graphing capabilities. I'm not at all sure what conclusions I would draw from my listening habits graphed, but I sense that it would be fascinating.

I would also like for Safeway to provide me with my buying history. I know that some marketing ogre has all of my information on her computer and she can tell anyone that asks exactly how many Twinkies I have purchased in the last 36 months. I think it would be fun to see graphs of my grocery buying habits too. We could compare meat purchases to dessert purchases to fruit and vegetable purchases and use that information to continue to ignore good dietary sense. We could compare my Colorado buying habits with my current buying habits. It could be fun and informative. It could.

Speaking of educational information, I have just been informed that television is on the brink of returning to my living room. My living room is too small for cable. However, I no longer have the willpower to fight it off. I fear this could be the end of an era. I have gone almost two years without TV in the home. In those two years I've watched hours and hours of movies and TV shows on DVD, so other than commercials I'm not sure how much "me time" I've really saved, but I do know that the lack of TV has helped me control some urges. Without TV, I don't want and need the way I did before. Products are less likely to compel me to action. When I waste hours in front of a screen, it's not spent on flipping channels, it's usually spent on clicking to people's blogs, but that at least requires reading. PLUS, plus with TV, there's always a chance that I might accidentally end up watching TV news. We all know that TV news burns retinas and dulls the brain, just as it tries to whip up a frenzied panic on the dangers of the likes of Mayonnaise.

I want to say that as an adult, I'll be able to handle TV. That I'll be able to get up and walk away when I'm finished. I'll watch the Gilmore Girls and I'll shut it off, but that's not the reality. For the first month or so, that might work. Girls. zap. off. Then it'll be Girls, channel flipping for 15 minutes, half a sitcom, some other show that I don't care about. Pretty soon, I'm flipping between VH1 and MTV and it's 3 in the morning, the couch is sagging under the weight of my now enormous stomach, as drool leaks out of the side of my mouth and collects in my beard along with the Cheetos that missed my pie hole on the first go. Oh sure, the Sandwich will try and control me, but one day I'll be screaming, "HAVE YOU SEEN THE FALL LINEUP FOR FX. IT'S F-ING BRILLIANT! GET OFF MY BACK!" and he'll have no choice but to slink back to his room as I belch good riddance.

Don't worry though. I've saved a seat on the couch next to me especially for you.

Is this 4 AM paranoia?

The whole blog google search thing has me near freaking out. I know I'm a lucky one with a fairly common name (who knew that would pay off?), but still. This just narrows the search. They will hunt us down. They will find us.

They highly recommend the book Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. No, wait. I do that.

See how confused it's all becoming?

Wisdom from the cupboard
It occurs to me that a coffee-flavored drink might just have some caffeine in it. It follows then that a generally non-caffeinated fellow such as myself might not want to throw back such a drink after 11 PM. Unless, say I was hoping to catch up on some displaced music, have another go with the frickin' banjo strings, read some beautiful Anne Patchett work, troll the Internets, and fight off the thoughts that I would've sworn had already been dealt with.

Wisdom from the 'hood
There comes a moment every Friday night when a man must accept that tonight is not going to net the riches or the bitches that rap superstardom had promised. I fear that moment has once again arrived for me. I hope that Fitty guy got his share.

So this is the night
I'm this close to just saying "Fine. Let's get cable." I'd be throwing almost two solid years and what I know somewhere deep down is good sense right out the window so that I could get my fill of those Gilmore Girls and this mysterious O.C. Instead, I get the No See and some game called Razamatan. No. That wasn't it. Where is Adrian to explain the rules when I need him?

This game is really pretty good. Word on the street is that other famous Chicagoans play too. It's a cross between Monopoly, Risk, and some other game that isn't Ultimate. Settlers of Catan, that's it! was quite enjoyable. I recommend an assistant and as much vulgarity and thinly-veiled sexual references as possible. Oh yea, the kiddies will eat this one up. You can make wheat jokes- "Wheat is sweet." You can make brick jokes- "A ton of bricks." You can make wood jokes. I'll let you make wood jokes on your own. And you can make sheep jokes. Pirate. Sheep. Jokes. Ore combine them all. It's funny. I swear it.

Speaking of games, I've decided to pass on the crazy travel plans and deal with some DC sights for now. I had considered just showing up at the train station and going on whatever train was leaving. I'd also considered making every decision this weekend based on a coin flip. I haven't entirely ruled that one out. Either way, I'm feeling toast for breakfast. Oh yea! I'm an adventurer.

That's more like it
Vonnegut in Cat's Cradle said "Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing instructions from God."
I've got a little itch to get my groove on this weekend. Anybody have something they need to tell me?

More politics?!?
I found myself cheering on this Post Op-ed on keeping gas prices high. I don't like getting gouged at the pump any more than the next guy, but I would greatly appreciate if the next guy would park his Hummer, or better yet not buy a disgusting vehicle like that at all. And maybe if the next guy and the next gal started making smart decisions, car companies would make some smart decisions. And then, heaven forbid while cars aren't guzzling so much gas, maybe city planners can start making some sensible decisions too and we'll actually have places to live that don't require so much driving.

I'm tired of wars over oil. I'm tired of the environmental battles with so little progress. It's the 21st century. It's time for some 21st century solutions. We should be arguing about the problems of time travel and flying cars, not about gas mileage rates that look just as bad as they did 30 years ago.

It's fun for everyone
I've been reading a lot about the "blame game" these last couple of weeks. It seems like a really good game. From what I can tell, it takes two people to play. It starts when the blamer makes accusations specifically or generally against the other player. The accusations can be baseless and off-the-wall or they can be backed by facts. It doesn't seem to matter which, so long as they are loud. Volume and quantity of blame is key. Later on in the game the veracity of the blame may come into play, but in the early stages of this game it's important to get off to a fast start so that the opponent doesn't have a chance to recover. By the time the truth comes out, a good blamer will already be cruising to apparent victory.

The best part about the blame game is that there is no limit to the number of players that can join in. This is a game for every race, class, sexual orientation, or government position. The blame game doesn't discriminate. It's fun for everyone. The only down-side to this all inclusive game is that there is not a clear-cut winner. Oh sure, it always looks like someone is winning and generally that someone blusters intensely as he/she looks to bury opponents, but there are no blue-ribbon blames. The flag doesn't fly for a championship blamer. As a matter of fact, as best I can tell the blame game tends to give us a whole lot of losers. Most of the losers didn't even want to play the game in the first place. Just a thought here: maybe we need to find some more constructive ways to play.

The problem

-with slouching and eating Pringles is that you end up with crumbs in your belly button.

-with hanging out at a college that you never attended is that eventually someone is going to call you creepy and you're going to start to wonder if they're right.

-with buying new banjo strings is that then you have to figure out how to attach them to your banjo.

-with not having TV is that you don't get to see The Gilmore Girls unless you're in a hotel.

-with reading all of this garbage is that it doesn't really get you anywhere.

Sleek and black and toaster of bread
My toaster will rock your face off. It's not that it does anything particularly different from any other toaster, but it does it with so much style. It's like the tuxedo of toasters. It is the James Bond of small appliances. Blenders literally (and by literally I, like the majority of English-speakers these days, mean nothing to do with literally at all) swoon when my toaster gets plugged in. I've heard them screaming when that little blue "toast" light comes on. It's a Toaster Invansion. Veg-o-matics look like chopped beets compared to my toaster. If my toaster could procreate and find a suitable toaster mate, it would make the hottest little toaster babies of all time. (Hmm. I wonder if anyone is selling toaster babies. I bet they'd be huge in Canada.)

As hot and sexy and incredible as my sleek, little, black toaster may be, it still gets jealous of the Kitchenaid mixer. Now that's a small appliance that's flippin' sweet.

Did I mention that I had some toast last night that really hit the spot? And also that I have no idea what I'd do with a mixer. I'm in a kitchen comfort zone when it comes to the toast.

I want to ride my bi-cycle

AT $3.31 PER GALLON, YOU GET OFF THE ROAD, JACKA**!

Continued pilfering of other sources
This one from Amber Hollibaugh, my dangerous desires (or so I'm told.)

"The memory of our histories is often constructed to work as our
conscience as well as to configure our secret desires. We wander through
our own minds endlessly, figuring and reconfiguring our stories, our
memories, our realities, so that they will line up with the choices we are
making, the dreams we are desperately fashioning, the stories we hope to
explain us, the lovers we desire, the world as we wish it to be."

Does that explain some of those thoughts that just seem to *pop* out of nowhere? Or the ones I can't escape?

Some things need to be preserved
The wisdom that the Sandwich and I came up with tonight may be one of those things.

"The good thing about simple is... it's not complicated."

Or not so much with the preserving. Or the wisdom. Heck, the Sandwich and I probably had nothing to do with that quote. I don't even know why you keep pestering me with your eyes. It's driving me batty. You. Always with the looking. I'll let you know when I have something important to say, you don't always have to be checking up on me. You're really rather nosey. It's kind of rude. If you were a houseguest and I was having a dinner party I might just ask you to leave. Or I might offer you some Scotch.

Yep. It's a topsy-turvy world.

Late breaking news: I was just informed that the quote was actually, "When things aren't simple, they're complicated. And complicated is bothersome."

Preserve that.

What goes down, must come up

I was all set to compare myself to a loose tooth. The world was going to be this big tongue just pushing and pulling and agitating from every which way. At moments the rocking, pulling, agitating world was going to cause pain and then an odd soothing sensation, and, the important part, as any loose tooth and/or 6 year-old will tell you, the tongue was going to knock that tooth right out of there and there was going to be bleeding. It was the weekend that didn't go as planned and it was the job that has taken a turn from the kooshy and it was hunger all getting to me. Having already exhausted the sarcastic remarks to a coworker and the turning up of the iPod to dangerous decibels to diffuse the situation, I was in the midst of Operation: Walk Home. During the aforementioned operation, the Iron and Wine song "The Sea and The Rhythm" pulsed into my ears and a smile that bordered on a giggle crossed my lips. Maybe it was that Iron and Wine thing working its magic again, or maybe Operation: Walk Home had finally taken effect. Either way, I couldn't help but look up at the big blue sky and think, I just finished a three day weekend. I just worked hard for my money. And now, I've got this whole beautiful evening to myself.


Tonight, we're the sea
and the rhythm there
the waves and the wind and the night is black

Summer is nearly gone. Was it ever here?
I'm still sweating more liquid than some states get rain, but without the big break or the big trip or the glorious return to a new school year, it feels a lot like a hot version of winter.

"How was your summer?" I am asked by my returning Ultimate friends. I look up into the bright blue sky and squint but the answer isn't up there. "I'm not sure it started. Check back later." But they don't. And neither do I.

Without the refreshing return to fall, that rebirth that used to come with the first days of September, the sameness wraps around a little tighter like a very slow moving boa constrictor.

Strongly considering veal
I've been home long enough to pull my calf.

A(nother?) run that could change my life
I went to practice with my brother-in-law's cross-country team on Saturday. They ran up "the chutes". I'm in decent high-school sophomore shape and I knew it, but I couldn't help, but try to run with the "Big boys". I let their #2 drag me up the hill and that worked for a while, but then I faded. Then after they waited for me at the turnaround I ripped most of the way down the hill on the heels of their #1. Until, once again I faded. The altitude had some effect as did the change in running surface, but I think mostly my inability to keep up comes from the lack of training.

So, how did the run change my life? Well, there's the burning in my quads (I love my Quads!), but that will probably wear off in a few days. I suppose it's possible that the renewed love of running and training could wear off in a few days too. What might not wear off is the sense that maybe English teacher and coach might not be a bad combination at all. That little desire keeps getting louder and harder to ignore.

Don't worry, I won't rush into anything.

Cap'n Humility keeps slugging me
It's been a tough year in the sports world. The record fell, PRs don't magically appear whenever I lace up my spikes, my body teeters on the brink of injury and now this. Dusting off my ping-pong prowess, I took on the best that my sister's house had to offer and I have come up short. My little sister. My little sister is consistently better than me. She has taken 5 games to my 3. She seems able to volley most everything I spin at her. I'm a little distraught as she claims that she had never beaten me before. Now she does it with apparent ease. I'm currently considering unloading my bedroom furniture to make room for a ping-pong table. I'm not sure there's adequate space. I may have to move so I can find a suitable practice area. For now, I have to tuck myself into bed and hold back the tears that losers cry.

Fantasy Island without that little guy
Yesterday while on a plane with this group of women, I thought to myself-- it wouldn't be all bad if we crash-landed on a deserted island. Then I realized there aren't a lot of deserted islands between Atlanta and Denver.

Yee haw! That was some kind of Sunday
I practically rolled out of bed and headed to The Dukes of Hazzard. Good stuff. I'll pay matinee prices just for watching the General Lee wiggle around and jump. Same for that Simpson girl in Daisy Dukes. I had some trouble adjusting to the personalities of these characters as compared to the originals. I want to go back and watch some episodes of the show to see how my memories compare with my current feelings. All I know is, I'd pick Hazzard County over The 40-year-old Virgin any day. Don't get me wrong, that flick had its share of laughs, but I don't like to feel sad and alone when I leave my comedies. Maybe that's just me...

From there, it was on to Ultimate. I do believe I've found a step or two in the last few weeks. I was jumping with confidence and running well. That's a good feeling. The only bad part- I found out that a disc doesn't fly in a parabola. That's for balls, not for floaty objects.

After dinner, I went to talk about Ultimate and then play some disc golf. Why, I reckon that's as good of an end to a week as I've had in quite some time.

These boots... walkin'.

It started with jam and ended in toast
My wedding registry is shrinking. This isn't a particularly acute problem since I have neither nuptials nor a registry. Still, it's concerning. How will our friends express their desire for our lifelong happiness if not through small appliances? I'm getting ahead of myself though. Let's go back a few weeks to that fateful trip to Safeway.

Wandering the aisles with list in hand, I noticed that Safeway jam was "Buy one Get one FREE." My jelly and jam choices have never really wavered. I'm a Welch's grape guy. Jam, jelly, it's Welch's grape. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my life have been grape 590 times out of 600. This is law. This is set in stone. There is not room for variety. There is not need for variety, but "Buy one Get one FREE?" How tempting. Not in the peanut butter and jelly sense, more in the toast sense. Wouldn't it be nice to have a little variety on my toast? It would. Nicer still if I had a toaster. Which at that time I did not. And yet, that didn't stop me from snatching up a couple of jam jars. Raspberry, peach, welcome to the fridge.

Sans toaster, I realized that I now had two jars of jam that would likely go to waste. I decided to try them with peanut butter on a sandwich. Now this would go on to open up a whole new world for me, but that's for another day. Right now, I want to focus on the fact that sandwich variety really did nothing for my toast craving.

I borrowed a toaster for my breakfast-as-dinner on Thursday and my new jams were jam-tastic. Mouthwatering, savory. If I was a testimonial on a jam commercial I couldn't say nicer things.

This only served to further illuminate my need for a toaster.

Taking control of the situation I purchased a sleek black small appliance of my very own.

Jam. It changes everything.

Details. Details. Unfinished thoughts on old friends and details
Ten years ago it would take a week of long slow distance to disect a few moments. The unfolding drama with some young lady, the reliving and retelling of that small sports moment, the theater of the classroom. Now it takes an hour to gloss over a year, pregnancy and all (not mine thankyouverymuch.) It's not the mastery of language that lets us achieve this efficiency. It's routine and distance. Yesterday was today is tomorrow. The minutiae doesn't travel well. For years it was carried in letters, and letters gave way to electronic mail and then to the online journal, but despite all the space on the Internets and all the trees that became paper the minutiae is still overwhelming. And so we turn to drink, or card game, to movie, to book, to an escape where all the minutiae belongs to them. And we discuss that minutiae, a common minutiae, connected general details that don't reveal too much. But in those minutes, of that hour, that glosses over a year, the tiny details that make a friend still slip out. New details emerge alongside familiar ones. None of it can be examined too closely, but all of it carries pieces of more. The minutiae marches on, it multiplies, and we try to ignore it, to condense it- "So when she touched her pinky finger on your knuckle, did your heart race?" now becomes "But you love her?" "My favorite movie is Lost in Translation" now replaces "Sometimes I feel so alone and then I meet a stranger and I see a look in their eyes or the way they walk and for a split second I feel intertwined in the universe."

We make our comparisons to a time and a place we both remember. Those lives are there. These lives are here. As hair disappears and sprouts in new places while experience and pain add depth to familiar eyes, we come to accept that there is a new minutiae and even if we still shared the time and the inclination to hash it out over a week of long slow runs, we'd never quite catch up. And as another meeting comes to a close we accept that we're ok with that.

Of force fields and the search for the perfect movie
Lately, I seem to be on a quest to find the perfect movie. There's nothing else to explain the volume of films I've been digesting. I don't know what I'll do if I find that perfect movie. Maybe I'll throw my popcorn up into the air, squeal, and run screaming from the theater. Perhaps, I'll pause the DVD and dry-hump the TV. Maybe, we're all better off just not knowing. I was told that The Island might be the "perfect movie." I went. And it was kind of close. I've decided that it's the best thing I've seen all summer. Action, mild insight into the human condition, stars of the hotter variety, basic story elements. Yet, almost no one is talking about it. It's made more money than I do, but I don't think it's doing that well. It's eery. The name is boring. The trailers were uneventful and even this post is a week late. I think there is something fishy going on. I'd try to figure it out, but I've still got The Dukes of Hazzard to see.

The Dukes may not be part of the quest, but I've got to check. It's my duty as a self-proclaimed honory citizen of Hazzard County. Now go on, GIT.

The age old question
If I want to race on a fateful day in September, the local running community is asking me to choose between preventing prostate cancer or preventing childhood cancer. I realize a swift 5k doesn't mean the end of either, but if it comes to it should I choose the cute and cuddly children or the cute and cuddly prostate?

Trying to make light of the fact that I've learned nothing in the last 17 years

Dear ~Insert Object of Affection here~,

I wanted you to know that I find your A. eyes B. smile C. feet D. antennae (circle one or more) almost irresistible. I say almost because if it were just (same as circled above) and a pile of dung, I would be able to walk away. Fortunately, it is not. In fact, it appears that you are completely intact and that is working out quite beautifully. I would prefer a closer look, with your permission, of course.

It occurs to me that although our paths have crossed, you may not be fully cognizant of who I am. Gosh, I hope you're fully cognizant in general, though I think you'll find me rather flexible if that is not the case. Flexible or not, I guarantee you'll find me winsome. That's not a money back guarantee, but you'll find that I am good for it. You'll also find that I'm athletic, educated, and can cook with the help of a microwave. My mother and numerous other women uninterested in me have hailed me as "quite the catch." I can give you their phone numbers as references if that would help. I've always considered myself to be a bit of an acquired taste, but I like to think that I'm pretty easy on the other five senses (I include ESP, though I'm not a psychic myself, just open to the possibility.)

In conclusion, we have never officially met, but I'm sure you've seen me prowling around and if you're up for it I had hoped that we might go out for some ice cream and a back rub tonight because I think you're beautiful and that makes us compatible.

Would you be up for it?

Yes. yes. sure. ok. Please circle one and return.

Sincerely,
Your Secret Admirer


P.S. I hope you are not married or a lesbian because if that's the case, this might not work. That well.

The key to being a champion is rearranging your expectations and delayed tales from a 3000m run
I've stumbled into a running club. I'm pretty sure I've paid my dues for another year and a half. This club has what they call a "Championship Series" (CS). In the CS, there are twelve events during the course of a calendar year. To win, place, or show (like the horses) a person has to run five of those twelve events. If a person runs more, the club credits the runner with his/her best five finishes. Kind of exciting. Then, to make sure that lots of runners have a chance to win, place, or show, they break everyone up into age categories. Points are awarded in each race depending on the age-group finish. Win the age group, snag ten points. Get second, take home nine, etc. It probably goes all the way to zero, but usually there are less than seven runners in my age group. I ran the record setting 5k a few months ago. Turns out that was a win, ten points, in the CS. Then that mile came along and it went just about as expected. Turns out that was a show in my age division, second place, nine points. A glance at the CS standings showed that I'd move into 4th place in the CS series with five races remaining. I skipped the half marathon for *personal* (read even my craziness only stretches to a certain point) reasons. That cost me a place in the CS series. I decided I would take on the 3000 meters in last Friday's track meet.

I spent the day at an amusement park in the heat. Nothing like getting dehydrated before a track meet. Rushing to the track, I pulled into the parking lot at 7:15 for what could've been a 7:30 start time. I wasn't sure. It turned out to be a 7:45 start, allowing me to relax a wee bit. I still couldn't work the pain out of my shoulder and I began to wonder if I'd finish the race at all, let alone belong in the "fast" heat. It had worked for the mile, so I thought it was best to try. Pit stop, shot of water, some nervous striders and I was ready to go. A crowd of 15 or so gentlemen embarked on our seven and a half lap journey. Taking pages from my last two races, I again calmly let the leaders leave me. It's sad to see them go, but mid-race explosion is far sadder. There were a few moments where I guiltily hogged the inside lane, but it's not like I was going so slowly that I didn't deserve to be there at all. I just wasn't ripping along. Things settled down and the crowd thinned. I was running calmly, shoulder-pain-free in about seventh place. Somewhere around the third lap I picked off a guy in front of me. Soon after, I felt Marty tuck in behind me. I didn't know it was Marty at the time, but as we rounded every turn, a chorus of "go Marty" seemed to be chasing me. Very quickly I realized that I did not want to lose to Marty. Marty, possibly another body unpopular like me, and I picked off another struggling soul.

I didn't know Marty from Steve Prefontaine. Marty could've been 23, Kenyan and biding his time. I wasn't going to look. I just knew that Marty was smart enough to settle in behind me and that I was stuck dragging him around the track. He had the advantage tucked in behind me, but I wasn't that interested in his advantage. I've won races from the front before and the more "go Martys" I heard, the more invested I became in keeping Marty tucked BEHIND me. We came through the mile in 5:32. It was reasonable and ahead of the worst-case scenario I had plotted pre-race. I like the underdog role, confidence is often a secret I keep even from myself. The leaders were long gone by now, but we started to creep up on a young man. He looked like he could be in my age division. I suddenly had new motivation. His lead was pretty sizable at that point. I'd say 25 meters, which in track is an enormous lead, but he seemed to be fading. There's a little part of me that feeds off others' pain, especially when I'm feeling good. Sadistic? Yes. Pleasing? Uh. huh. I set my sights on overtaking this young man. He turned out to be fairly easy prey. As I passed him, I seemed to gain a step or two on Marty. At that point we had about seven hundred meters to go. With six hundred left, I bumped up my pace just slightly. Marty lost his enviable position as I gained a few more steps. With four hundred meters to go, I began what used to be called a "kick." I say "used to" because the difference between race pace and kick has grown rather subtle. It was something though because I pulled even farther away from Marty and guy that later turned out to be two age divisions younger. I finished in 10:14. One of one and fourth overall.
Pleased, but more pleased to return to fourth in the CS and a mere two points out of third.

Marty. He turned out to be a former club VP and two or three age divisions on the other side.

That's ClassE. With an E
I have developed a fantanstic new habit of drooling on myself during my evening nap/commute. It leaves a nice little splotch on my chest. I'm leaking!

Breaking news
Those of you who knew my neighbor freshman year of college will be happy to hear that he's on his way to be a kiwi. And if I'm counting my readership correctly that might only be Daimon, the man, himself. For the rest of you, I'm talking about him. (On second thought, Abba might've known that.) I'm also publicly announcing my jealousy. I just wanted to get that out there right now and then remind myself that sometimes the coolest looking path is not your path.

Is it November?
Because there is boldness brewing.

Summer's over
How can she leave me? She just got here.

Broken Flowers
Today a coworker of mine sneered that "If you liked Lost in Translation, you'll like Broken Flowers." Sneer or not, she was right. It lacks some of the cinematic flair and Scarlett, but otherwise plays quite well.

I could explain it if I wanted to
I think. Suffice to say that this is my first whirlwind to ever include a 3000-meter run.

Is this a movie?
I had nearly forgotten my promise to try to unmask the not-so-secret identity of new cute girl at work having not seen her for nearly a week, except for that one time when she just appeared out of nowhere and I was totally not ready to get to the unmasking at that moment. So, having nearly forgotten the aforementioned promise, my opportunity literally passed me by today. Immersed in writing a note on my hand, she must have walked directly past me between the corridor of elevators because when I looked up I saw her black skirt swoosh across her trailing calf.

Somehow I managed to squelch the urge to chase after her.

Self-control.

And also fear. Because as someone said in the elevator the other day, "It's easy to like people you don't know."

Nocturnal Admissions
Bedtime is two hours past, ideally. Only one in practical terms. My wallet pokes at my cheek ready and waiting for morning even when I'm not done with night. New music is no longer spinning, not off, just digital. The weight of earlier words trimmed by a diet of meals, music, and the all-knowing unfeeling Internet. I sit in my chair, back tilted one way, head the other. I'm not exactly waiting for that one thing that will cap it all off. Would it help if I heard applause? The credits rolled? I don't. They don't. So I search some more. Will I find it on screen? Should I have sipped on caffeine? My brain and my finger dance, though not together. I am surrounded by a mess of my making- letters written that will go unsent, next to plastic discs that go unthrown, all sprinkled with clothes in varying stages of clean; an optimist launders here. My bed is not three feet away, but my dreams are nowhere in sight. I'm sure I could sleep, but I won't close my eyes. Until now. I quiet my mind with some words. Perhaps they are stolen; I don't own them. I just rearrange them and try to be heard. Is that my voice? Is this my choice?

Inertia.

Nothing's right and nothing's wrong
Dinner won't be what I want, but exactly what I make. My evening will consist of a series of tasks which need to be completed, but can just as easily wait another day. I'll do something for fun, something for me, and still go to bed a little unsatisfied. It's not so hot that it's uncomfortable. It's not cool enough to be nice. I'll call you on the phone, but I'll have nothing to say. Then I'll do it all over tomorrow.

New Joisey- what a curious place
Forget the fact that my 3 hour drive to a town outside Princeton was delayed 3 hours by a jumper not 15 miles from home. Jumpers are for skyscrapers, not highways. Come on, people. At about 3 a.m. I settled into the appropriate place for the elder statesman of an Ultimate team, the parent's bed. The parents weren't home, thankfully. I still felt a little awkward, but fortunately I was only there for 3.5 hours. Then it was off to the beach.

Beach Ultimate. I know what you're thinking because I was thinking it too. Sand. Sun. Bikinis. Plastic. This could be heaven? Where's the record scratch when you need it? The gray overcast skies were only out-grayed by the beach and the pools of water that had collected on the beach. The sand was more like mud. The sun played hooky. Bikinis aren't really Ultimate attire, although I did see one guy with a hole cut out of his shirt to reveal his batman-shaped chest hair. Plastic though? It was out in force. There were more Ultimate fields than I've ever seen. I've heard reports of 180 teams. I don't remember a lot from Saturday. I know that the sand was soft and I did my share of laying out in it. When I say laying out, I'm not talking about tanning. I'm talking about diving, which I did inbounds, out of bounds, for discs, for defense, for kicks. I kinda like sand. I was accused of playing the best Ultimate they'd ever seen me play. It's not worth arguing about, especially when Sunday would restore balance to the universe. Saturday, I basked in the overcast. I soared. I scored. I threw full (short)field throws for scores. I had a sand and mud covered blast as the team went 3-1. Between games we took dips in the Atlantic. In games we took dips in the puddles. I ate more sand and dirty water than I care to admit. Everybody was doing it. Every direction I looked it seemed like someone was flying through the air. Soft landings encourage people to attempt flight more often. It was almost unreal.

If Saturday was unreal, Sunday was all too real. At least, too real for my throws to hit the mark and my defense to keep pace. It was a reality where we quickly found ourselves at 3-3 on the weekend. It was a reality that involved "Drive-by biddings", free meals, quirky little sisters, and the repeated singing/hollering of Kelly Clarkson's Since you've been gone. Ok, so not that real, but quite enjoyable.

Power up kids
We lost power here last night and I had the opportunity to break out the candles. I couldn't remember how to play Cribbage and I couldn't crack the code that was the rules. From there it cascaded down and I realized that I really couldn't do much of anything and when the electricity is on, I don't anyway. Would the Amish be kings if the electricity stayed down? What would we do when our battery-operated goodies died down and we were left to our thoughts and other people? I think it'd get ugly in a hurry. The milk situation alone would cause some serious problems. I decided two things last night

1. I need more canned goods.
2. A little less talk and a little more action.

That ought to do the trick. And also some more DVDs to dull the world as it comes back to light.

Very interesting

-The subscription solicitation for Skiing magazine and the solicitation for Powder arrived on the same freaking freaking freaking hot day in July. Both came from Tampa Florida. Conspiracy? Seems likely.

-There is a man at my office. Everyday I see this man. Most days I see this man two times. Some days I see this man two times in the copy room and then other times too. This man always smiles. He always says hi. I always say hi back to him. This has gone on for quite some time. Today as I got off the empty elevator on our floor, he made moves to get on. I threw my hands up blocking the door and said, "Wait. What's your name?"

He probably thinks I'm crazy. At least now he knows that crazy has a name.

I swear

1. I get more Evites from women I don't know...
2. I've had showers that weren't as wet as my walk home.
heat. wave.

Marketing is fun

The DVD box of some movie that starts with an M said, "the extended footnote to Sideways."

Because everybody loves long footnotes?

Sexy jobs
I couldn't find the Post story that turned me on to boat jumpers, so I had to google it. I have the print version in my room if you want to see it. Limited time only. If you aren't planning a stop to my room in the near future, check out the propaganda. Ignore the fact that they're young and that they make $6.50/hour and think about how cool it is to jump to the dock, sprint to the mailbox, and then jump back onto the boat. The Post article had one particularly appealing paragraph, "Sweating and red-faced, she leaped four feet from the pier, grabbed a rail and just managed to catch the stern. Her Nikes slipped, and her body thumped loudly against the side of the boat."

So. Cool.

With obsession comes pain
Last weekend was the first weekend I'd played Ultimate in almost 2 months. I was nervous. Nervous that I might have lost more than a step and nervous that I would crumple to the ground with another injury. It passed as I did. It faded as I soared through the air.

"What is your vertical?" William, our elder statesman, a short man with gray hair and a love for the hammer asked me after I ripped a disc out of the sky.

"That was it," I laughed. "I can't go any higher."

****

I spent this week daydreaming. I was flying. I was diving. Even when the disc was bouncing off my outstretched hand, it was still magic. Maybe I had lost a step, but the renewed wonder and the seed of a thought that I might regain it were enough to keep me smiling at work.

I spent this week reading. I read about Ultimate. I read about coaching and how that applies to Ultimate. I want to test my theories. I want to grab a team and I want to go go GO. I spent a lot of moments jittery, excited, nervous, because I want to play some more.

But I've had to wait. I've had to wait for my sore muscles to forgive me. I've had to wait for a game. I've spent the last month relatively at ease with my decision to take a break. I've been riding and running, and even swimming with renewed vigor. This week, this week I've been a mess. I want more. I want to play. I want to improve. I'm frustrated that I can't channel that energy into the game, but I know from experience in a land called Ohio that there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Ultimate 4 to 6 days a week and nothing else leaves me unhappier than this waiting.

I've got to find balance. I've got to find books that aren't about Ultimate. I've got to find thoughts that aren't about flying. I've got to funnel this energy somewhere else, so that when I'm a little down I can turn to those excited moments, but when I'm up, it doesn't have to be from an Ultimate high.

Never mind.

Reason #67 to like this town
6:15ish on a Friday night. The exercising was undone. The evening plans uncrystallized. Scouring the movie section I spotted Happy Endings and decided it was time for doing and crystallizing. I grabbed a spare shirt, some water, and my bike. Doing my best Lance Armstrong impression I sprinted on over to the movie theater across town or at least on the "other side of the tracks." I pulled up panting with minutes to spare, bought my ticket, changed my shirt and enjoyed a dark comedy with some lighter amusing silent-movie-esque narration. While I attended to an aged and darker Lisa Kudrow, a scene-stealing Maggie Gyllenhaal, and a decent Tom Arnold, night came 'round.

What would a boy and his bike do?

Take the Metro. It was slower than the ride, but there was less panting. Nice.

I just wanted to test this photo posting thing to see how it worked. Then I decided that wasn't enough, that it needed to mean something.

So. Revel in that.

Tying the week together
So Potter pushed me up against the edge, but couldn't bring the rain. With the McCrush still lingering I turned to The Notebook to finish the job. I was sensing another failure about two-thirds of the way through the movie, and McAdams was fine, but not Wedding Crashers fine, if you know what I mean and I think you do. So I was a little bummed because it looked to be another long and grumpy night, propped up by an ok movie and the smile I've grown to admire in less than 3 days, when suddenly the floodgates opened. I don't know what happened next, but I was trying to fold laundry, and instead I ended up blowing my nose in the stuff and it hasn't been like this since The Family Man. Weird howls cropped up toward the end and I had to go check out my own pink puffiness in the mirror and then I couldn't help but laugh.

After that I went and practiced my pulls. I seem to be hovering at about 60 yards. I think I need to polish the guns. Or get a (better) grip.

Pleased as punch-

It's over
I feel a bit like I've broken up with my girlfriend. I didn't eat that much. I'm going to go to bed soon. Thanks for another, J.K.

I found one line to be particularly applicable to everyday life- "It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high."

the tendency to make two people a microcosm

The world sheds its pods and cracks open its Potter.

Infatuation Update
Rachel McAdams, Claire/John's (Owen Wilson's) love interest in Wedding Crashers. Put her on the list as a brunette.

Who has the list anyway?

Never mind. You can find it in the morning. Good night.

Who are you?
And what have you done with the "'usual" Dave? I'm not sure I recognize this guy in the dead-sexy jeans. I didn't recognize him yesterday in his hipster Charlie and the Chocolate Factory t-shirt, which did in fact smell like chocolate. Oh I wasn't kidding. He had a quiet unfamiliar confidence as he sipped Heineken in a dive. He seemed more himself behind a pane of glass watching passerbys, but then that whole run outside and have people smell his shirt seemed a bit more flagrant than we're used to. Blame her. She's an influence.

Who is this guy, spending cheese, winking at the world like he's in on a secret? Windows rolled down, cruising on the highway, he reached up afraid that his hair would be mussed by the wind. Hair? There's not enough there to get mussed, son. Flashbacks to another time? Forward? or back? He's jamming to every song because it moves him. Disco? Oldies? Pop-Trans? They all need a thigh-slapping rhythm section. I saw him get out his iron today and when it refused to heat up, he wore his shirt anyway. Oh, yea. That's still our guy.

Phew.

Hi. Do you want to smell my shirt?

Sometimes I read the Style section
The headline for a story about Paul Feig's new book Superstud made me smile. It's a Nerd. It's in Pain. It's Superstud. Go back and read that aloud if you didn't get it. I missed it at first. Lois Lane, Clark Kent- there you go. The headline was pleasing, but the book sounds dumb.

They caught Borf. This town is having a rough year for secrets. First Deep Throat and now Borf. Oh, Borf. Who's going to hate Bush now? Who's going to deface property? Who's going to cause confusion and add mystery to the likes of mailboxes and street signs? I never understood you, but I just might miss you.

In a flurry of movies, I saw War of the Worlds which is pretty solid, so long as you don't think too hard about the aliens and don't mind abrupt endings. I saw Fantastic Four and it was better than The Hullk, which isn't saying much. It would have made a fine TV movie. Do they still make those? They left lots of room for a sequel, so I guess that's good for "The Commish", the guy that isn't Jonny Knoxville, the Fly's stunt double, and the really hot scientist chick who never says anything that even approaches smart but provides the sexual tension, the plot, and a reason for cool futuristic fiber suits.

Carry on about your business now.

All you need is
exercise. Ok. I just got back from a bike ride and on a scale from 1 to 10, with 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest, that was an awesome. I followed a trail I've taken once before which lead me past a little faux-French chain bistro. I'd done that before, but then I plummeted down to the river where I was cruising by my old marathon training grounds. That turned into the non-Metro accessible part of town, I wiggled a round a bit, dodged some taxi-cabs, waved to the Bushies, buzzed the WA monument, , wiggled some more, zipped past my employer's joint, and then stop and go for the next 6 miles home. I consumed way too much bus exhaust which was slightly hazardous to my health, but otherwise it was a great ride. I sailed right home minutes before total darkness. Sweet! With a little tweaking I may even have found a route to commute to work, not an efficient route, but possibly a partially pleasant one.

Going to Montreal in a Hybrid and other tales from the road not taken
There's this whole big world that I haven't explored and for some stupid reason I just can't quite get going. I've got the vacation days. I've got a list of potential destinations a mile long, and yet nothing. The only way I end up somewhere is if I can manage to squeeze in someone else into whatever location I pick (or is picked for me as the case may be.) If there's no work, I can take a vacation if 1) someone else wants to go along or will be at the "final" destination. 2) Someone else is there and it's on my list. 3)Someone (see a pattern here) invites me. The only truly solo vacation I've managed in the last few years was to the Grand Canyon at the tail end of a work trip. It was great, but I struggled with the planning quite a bit. That's the real problem. I am paralyzed by the planning. The quick and easy solution to that problem would seem to be the tour group, but I think I've grown up with a bias against tour groups. Tour groups are for people who can't figure out what they should do. I don't want to admit to that and pay for the tour too. Humbling and expensive are just not my style.

I read somewhere that one of the cool things about traveling alone is that you can strike up a conversation just by asking to have your picture taken. Somehow that doesn't have me flying out the door with my camera in one hand and my swimsuit in the other.

I'm off to nowhere. I'll send postcards.

Highlight of a really good day
It's unfair to say that I made a beautiful girl laugh, because then you'll only think of her physical characteristics. Her big brown photographable eyes and her flowing curly reddish-brown hair, of now unknown length. It's unfair to say that her laugh rushed me back to late nights in a lounge in a hall on a campus in the middle of Missouri, because then you'll focus on the past. The picture of her legs and arms twisted into uncomfortable-looking comfort in ill-fitting yet endearing clothes as she talked animatedly from a tabletop. This laugh didn't happen in the past. It may have been a product of the past, the way that mango juice is a product of clouds; vital sure, but not directly connected.

I can't describe the laugh because it instantly filled me with joy. It wouldn't be right to say it was full or throaty or genuine. I can't tell the joke because it wasn't memorable in the ways of talking muffins or pickles on motorcycles.

I could tell you about the rest of my day and that might give you some measure of the laugh's magnitude. Work was fast and rewarding and my day was filled with praise. Dinner was simple and delicious, dirty rice and leftover hamburger helper. I shared my writing and a little of my soul with Kella and then I shared some smooth soft drinks with her too. There was a breeze blowing off a local fountain that cooled the otherwise hot humid evening. So often Kella has the ability to make me feel like my wisdom isn't temporary, like just maybe I've figured something out and she's kind enough to help me with the parts still unfigured. Somehow our meandering conversation took me back to a shirt, the sexiest shirt I have ever known. It was a blue cowboy shirt, more blue than cowboy. It had tiny white blurry checks, not paisley, and cowboy shirt snaps. Its owner once told me it was a sexy shirt and there is no faster way to make me a non-believer than to tell me something, but when she put it on I was a goner. I almost cried just thinking about it. My knees are getting weak at this very moment. The shirt like the laugh had an indescribable quality about it. That's a good day, and a great laugh. The laugh meant "you can be funny." It meant, "I can be happy."

I can be funny. You can be happy. Laughs are joyous occasions.

Hungry, Hungry Atlantic
With my uncorrected vision, it's nearly impossible to compete in the car-ride favorite ABC game. When a disc is thrown I see a white blur, not unlike a stack of 4 discs. With each revolution the stack shrinks until at about 2 meters from my body the disc becomes a single, spinning, catchable piece of plastic. That works just fine for discs thrown flat, but not so well for those that leave at severe angles. I can't see the angle until it's too late. I can't see facial expressions. I can't see whether people are watching me or turned and facing the other direction entirely. I can't help with street signs at all.

As frustrating as all that has been today, the worst part about losing my glasses in the fairly boneheaded swimming-in-the-ocean-with-my glasses-on move was that fact that I was no longer able to fall in love with every girl in a bikini from 40 paces. I had to move closer.

Did I say the worst thing?

Miles away
Nerves. Somehow I can escape my thoughts now and then, but my stomach is tingling. It knows what's coming. It's trying to tell my legs. It's trying to tell my feet. I'm trying to settle it, but since I left work, the stomach has giggled in nervous anticipation.

It's a mile. The first in years. I'm boldly predicting 4:46. Results later. I'm off to eat a PBJ and drink some more water to fill what I cannot settle. Stay tuned.

Results
There is some level of tragedy in knowing your body so well. It doesn't leave a lot of room for surprises. 4:46 turned out to be a bit bold. I was on pace through 2 laps and just a tad slow through 3, but I had no kick for the last lap and ended up running 4:51. I'm relatively pleased. It's been a humbling few years now. It was a little sad to be starting the last turn while the crowd cheered on the finishers. It's a lot more fun up front, but I knew from the get-go that I didn't belong in the front. I ran my race and I battled as much as I could with those around me. It was a solid steady effort and nothing to be ashamed of. I'm quite proud of myself for hopping into the fast heat. I hemmed and hawed because there was a heat for people planning to run between 4:50 and 5:20. I had a hunch I was going to be flirting with 4:50, but I decided that the faster group would push me. I'm glad I stood firm because the previous group had a 5:06 victor. It would've been a hollow victory. Instead I got a somewhat meaningful third-to-last-place finish.

I'm pleased, really I am. The back of the pack is still an unfamiliar place for me and not one I necessarily want to live in. The positives:
*solid steady effort
*no unusual pains
*a time/ I did it.
*that was one happy hour. Watching track meets, even (or especially) just miles is a cool thing. I kind of liked being around runners.
*it was a real mile- 1609 meters.

DT seeks lmb 4 bpc
I was perusing some online personal ads last night in an effort to once again talk myself out of trying to define myself in a little box because that's so very frightening even though this whole share my every other thought with the world doesn't seem to bother me much. I may also have been perusing out of curiosity. It happens. Lots of the women seeking men seemed to want the same thing. If there is an island of tall HOT HOT HOT guys, they should definitely get Internet access and visit craigslist because there are a lot of women who would be happy to go pic for pic with them. In the slightly more accepting category, my favorite ad said it would be cool if you were hot, but nerds are even better, but not those blogger-types.

Really? There's a classification of nerds that now includes bloggers? Where exactly on the nerd spectrum does this fall? I wonder if personal bloggers are nerdier than issue bloggers. And does anyone have a spare nerd spectrum? I seem to have lost mine when I was throwing out my T-square. Thanks.



Do Topia seeks like minded blogger for blog post comments.

I'm a terrible vegetarian
because I eat meat.

There have been a number of discussions around me (at least two and two is definitely a number) recently that invovled the lack of clarity surrounding certain words. Things aren't so black and white, there are often shades of gray, and on the right stations David Gray. And while quadrapalegic didn't quite involve the full paralysis that I interpreted and deaf might not be the right word for someone that still hears sound, "make a $@#$%# decision, I don't care what it is," seems pretty clear.

Too bad I'm too chicken substitute to say that.

Can I get an oh my gawd for the way I rock my iPod?

So two fine readers, or psychics as the case may be, were kind enough to relieve me of some of the late-June terror with an iTunes gift certificate. I had free reign in the iTuniverse and a new fear of picking good songs. Subjective it may be, but still no easy task. Jessica Simpson was an easy choice with her new cover of "These Boots Are Made for Walking" made for the upcoming Dukes of Hazzard flick. I enjoy lyrical imagery as much as the next guy and this song manages at least one killer line- "Can I get a handclap? For the way I work my back." The rest of it is just good clean fun, er, at least fun. I abandoned the Spice Girls for a little "Free Fallin'" with Tom Petty, some Dashboard Confessional, Iron & Wine per recommendation and Gorrillaz per some comment I picked up in some blog somewhere. I also picked up "Hate to Say I Told You So" by The Hives, and "The Comeback" by the Shout Out Louds complete with racing noises to kick off the song. Then I went crazy and bought a Bowling for Soup album.

This is fun. And when I say "picked up" I guess I really meant clicked on some buttons.

The short and short of it. A 4 star weekend
*Ribs. Ribs. Ribs. frisbee. cake. Woo.

*I spent my birthday with a stranger and one of my closest friends. Somewhere in the afternoon I was infatuated with the stranger. It's in the eyes and the smile and the energy. It's in 31 gram boxes of Hot Tamales. It's in genie pants. It's in a handbag the size of a daschund filled with mints and gum. It's in the skin of neck and the shoulders. It's in any gesture of kindness to me. It's in the quiet. It's in the graceful movement of a green glitter shoe. Nine hours later, I'd settled down. I love my friend, but there were moments where I desperately wanted to make him disappear. I'm glad I didn't. Then we wouldn't have been able to chase each other round and round a fountain or laugh about our miscommunications or walk home and call it a great day. It's in our history. It's in B-A-N-A-N-A-S. It's in his charm. It's in his stories. It's in the disc. It's in the willingness to join me for a track workout, but most of all it's in something I can't explain at all.

*I had brunch at a little hobbit's place. I had dinner at Big Wong's. There's a joke in there somewhere.

*I hear the fireworks. I feel the independence. Happy 4th!

I'm no Briguy
I'm tired of hearing that John Walton's hobby "claimed his life." If anything didn't the hobby "claim his death?" Is this anything like claiming a coat? When we're born we get a little ticket with a number on it and when the affair is over we walk over to the life-check clerk, hand him the ticket and then die except in those rare cases where the clerk can't find our life and then it's all "You better find my life or I'm calling the manager," and the clerk has that bewildered look that says the life was right here and I don't get paid enough for this. Then somebody else comes up and the clerk grabs her ticket just to avoid the angry guy with the "temporarily misplaced" life but when he comes back with her life the guy screams, "HEY. That's mine!"

And dies.

Actually, I don't understand how an activity can claim anything.

Do you smell that?
It's not a fire because it isn't big enough, but it burns somewhere deep inside of me. It might be indigestion, but I haven't had anything spicy lately. It's tiny lumps of charcoal on a grill that you'd assumed was out, but if I can just keep fanning the coals and maybe find some lighter fluid, I think I can light a fire again. And watch it Burn. BURN. BURN!

This is what happens when my body starts to recover...

Something terrible, something wonderful

The Bad-
I am terrified of the online music store. Or I am terrified of myself when thousands of songs are just a click away. I bought two tonight and I almost had to slap my own hand or I would have ended up with some Spice Girls, a little Jessica Simpson, some Beatles I already have, and who knows what else. It's just button-pushing, money won't change hands for a month, which we all know practically means money doesn't change hands. It's FREE! It's no wonder credit debt is rampant. Online music is a dangerous thing...

The Good-
The digital camera has lead to an interesting new way to express myself (and isn't that what we're all after? No really, I'm asking.) I spent an hour or so Sunday, just wandering around town looking in a whole different way. I shot about 60 photos, with the vast majority either having the local theater, kids playing in a fountain, or bars (the metal kind, I'm not sure what that says.) Then using my expensive desk toy, I made a slideshow. Tonight's addition of the Fleetwood Mac song "Silver Springs" to my iPhoto slideshow of the town by nearly the same name (thanks to Kim for being so Stevie Nicks savvy) means that my slideshow is now nearly nostalgic* enough to kill you, or at least seriously bruise you.

*The Ugly (truth)-
It has come to my attention that the addition of music (most any music) tends to make pictures a whole lot more meaningful. The pictures I took Sunday (that was yesterday) set to music, now take on so much meaning that it almost brings a tear to my eye to remember the town the way it used to be. I long for those days.

I suspect this same effect contributes mightily to my ability to fall in love with most any leading lady thrown onscreen.

Looking to make it- just barely
I set a new PR, that's personal record, today. I figured I needed one more before I close out el 26. Today I ran the slowest timed 5k of my life. The silver lining, other than not repeating yesterday and the very fact that I was able to run at all based on recent injury history, was that it was still a race. I was still chasing a guy in red shorts that I could never catch and I was still being chased by a guy in blue shorts that I desperately wanted to beat. So despite the side stitch, and despite the hilly course, and despite the humidity, and despite the slower pace, I was still in a battle for who knew what place.

My desire to not be passed tends to be greater than my desire to pass. The poor guy behind me must have sensed my demise at least 3 times in the last mile and every time as his footsteps got closer and his breathing started to creep up on me, I managed to dig down and put some distance between us. To his credit, up to the end I wasn't able to really put him away, and I suppose to my credit, he never did get me. Then again, I never got red shorts either.

So if you're scoring at home, I ran a 19:31. We'll be looking for that to drop during this next year.

Next race: A Midsummer night's mile- That'll be the first mile race since oh, '01? Should be interesting. I'll keep you posted.

it rains, it pours
Vomited on myself during a bike ride today, sort of a moderate speed spew. I continued on. Kind of sums up the day. Looking for a chunk-free tomorrow.

Let's go out to the movies
Tonight's pace was leisurely and leisurely was good. Blah-Filet, not so good. On the other hand, Batman Begins was quite good. Bale is Batman. It makes me want to forget all those previous Bat flicks. Also, I must say, you can call Tom Cruise a lot of things, but after seeing Katie on the big screen, I can't call him crazy. No sir.

As for the previews, there was all kinds of excitement. I almost let out a "Yee-Haw" when the General Lee was jumping on the big screen. Let it be known- I'm going to see The Dukes of Hazzard. I felt like a 6 year old kid every time that old orange Charger made an appearance. My ears and brain will hurt from the dialouge, but it's worth 9 dollars to see 01* jumping again (and .25 to see Jessica Simpson in a bikini.) Right from old infatuations to new ones, the preview for the upcoming Serenity** movie was also shown. It looks like all the crew got a haircut and style, but I have high hopes despite the cleancut look the movie will be even better than the failed Firefly TV show. Go see it, and maybe they'll bring back the show.

*(whoops I had said 00, but I was wrong. Some fan I turned out to be.)
**rather than Serendipity which starred John Cusack and that cute Brit, but wasn't very good after all.

Better than warm milk
I love perspective before bed.

My A-D-D existence
As I'm working on this blog post, I am also working on
1. burning a CD.
2. improving my pretentious digital slide show.
3. organizing iTunes
4. picking CDs to let my coworker borrow.

Interestingly enough, not one of these things is going particularly well, but these days that doesn't seem to stop me. I talk on the phone, surf the Internet, and listen to music at the same time. I listen to NPR and read the City Paper at the same time, sometimes while trying to make dinner. My universe is so splintered that it's hard to remember what I am doing, let alone what I want to do.

F9 may be the answer. I'm on a Mac and F9 gives me a global view of all my applications in miniature at once. If I press it, I'm forced to take a step back. I can look at all the applications I have open and decide which one to focus on. I picked the blog for the moment. I'll finish up here and it's back to CD burning.

Don't bother trying to keep up. I can't.

SPARE US: Dress it up and slap a full bar in the back
It's still a bowling alley. The pins may be neon. The blacklights may make white-shirts that trippy purplish-blue. The bar may stock more than beer. The kitchen may serve appetizers that include nachos rather than serving strictly nachos, but the alley- still for bowling. And the ugly shoes? Still ugly! Maybe the ugly shoes are the essence of bowling? The thought of rolling a ball and knocking over wooden pins with nice-looking shoes; crippling.

On the one hand, this should have been my perfect bar. One of the things I've never mastered is bar behavior.* The mixture of cocktails and conversation is a baffling one to me. Add in noise and women and basically I'm useless. Most of my trips to bars end up in a grumpy-that-was-pointless exit. A bar with a scorecard, a bar with a purpose, that should be right up my alley! I was too focused on getting my money's worth to really figure out if the place was my perfect bar. No easy task with the prices they charged.

The smelly orange and blue vinyl and plastic combinations that usually arch around an alley scorers table were replaced with very classy and comfortable chic couches. Pre-lane, not including the electronic scorecard, this place was a martini glass. Not in that clear vermouth with an enormous olive on a toothpick way, but in the sleek-lines, Frank-Sinatra-is-hiding-around-the-corner kind of way. The music, however, failed the Rat Pack. The alley opted instead for slow remixes of the classics. I refer of course to the classics like "Come on Eileen." There wasn't any smoke, which is a beautiful thing, but almost feels like cheating when I'm comparing bars.

As much as I want to disparage this trendy bowling alley in my county, I think I enjoyed myself. Even in defeat. There was one small detail that troubles me more than the money and more than the idea of bowling being the "it" scene. It's having to tell my children that I met their mother at a trendy bowling alley bar. NO. Not really. I can think of worse fates.

It's those little lane arrows. I have this same problem with my Extreme bowling and with proper support I'm thinking of starting a letter writing campaign. When my dad taught me how to bowl, he taught me to focus on the arrows instead of the pins. If the alleys turn out the lights, I CAN'T SEE THE ARROWS! They can make the pins glow. They can shoot spotlights all across the room. The lanes can have emergency plane lights directing me to the nearest strike and/or exit, but the little arrows are always neglected.

Alleys, that's a gutterball in my book. Light my arrows and put out the fire that burns in my soul.


*(It's fine with me if you decide NOT to list some of the other things I've never mastered.)

Paul, don't bother
Some things I want:
a fire escape balcony that sits quietly above the city, an ocean view, a lake view, mountains all around, 72 degree evenings, snow, to make new friends, to keep growing with the friends I have, adventure, peace and quiet, a good book, the top-secret back-of-the-package recipe for Anne's all-meal dessert bars, the stars, love, independence, to remember, to forget, to reach people when I need them, to listen to the voices, to have nights like this, a kid to play with, a nice slow kiss, independence, freedom, someone to tell me what to do just so I can rebel, the courage to just say, "Hi. My name is Dave." satisfaction, a shower, deodorant that doesn't fail, the end of the feeling that something is coming out of my nose when I'm talking, more courage, patience, this list to end.

A response from the body
Dear David,

You bastard. Do you think that's how things work? You give the orders and I follow them? Give me a little respect here. There are things I do that you don't even begin to conceive. Yea. So. Thanks. Think about that.

Maybe if you had started conceiving a while ago, you wouldn't be whining now. That's all you do is whine, isn't it? Do you have a clue of what I'm really capable of? No. You don't. You're so caught up in what you think. It's incredibly frustrating. Maybe if you actually put some decent food in me, maybe if you drank enough water, maybe if you would let me f***ing rest instead of staying up at all hours of the night with your incessant whining to the world. Oooh. I'm David. Feel sorry for me, because I'm not what I thought I'd be. OOH. I'm David. I don't have a girlfriend, but I'm soooo sensitive. la la la. Give it a rest. Nobody wants to hear it you pathetic whiner.

Seriously, where would you be without me? Would you have any self-confidence at all? What if I shut down your legs? What if I stopped letting you catch and throw a disc? You wouldn't know what to do with yourself. You'd be a little lost blob. So threaten me if you want. We're a team here and if you haven't figured that out by now, maybe you will the next time I holler about pain.

Don't you ever give me T-shirt slogans again. Disrespectful little ---.

Ugh.

-Body

A letter to my body
Dear body,

I understand that you are getting on in years and I appreciate that you still look so gosh durn good. BUT FOR PETE'S SAKE CAN YOU STOP WITH THE INJURIES!

I was swimming today. We're talking low-impact. We're talking water. We're talking swimming. And granted, I've been in a bit of mood lately what with another year 'bout to pass, pushing a little harder than I had been when it comes to sports, but SWIMMING. I injured myself swimming. Body, we've never had so many problems before. Are you trying to tell me something? If it's 'slow down' I wish you'd stop telling me that. I don't like hearing it. In fact, if you don't shape up soon, I'm going to have to resort to drastic measures. You thought that marathon was painful, let me tell you something body, that was just the beginning. Remember that old shirt with the saying, "What the mind can conceive, the body will achieve?"

Oh, you remember it.

Let's just say that if you don't get your act together, the mind is going to be conceiving of some pretty serious endurance tests.

I don't mean to come off threatening, here, but I'm threatening. I can google a triathlon faster than you can take breath.

Don't think I won't.

Get your act together so we can play some Ultimate or go take a nice brisk run, or get ready for some real pain.

Sincerely,
David

stuff not entirely related to sandwiches
The problem with having a friend named after a sandwich is that if the friend is a respectable kind of person, then I start to think the sandwich is a respectable kind of sandwich. It doesn't take long at all and I'm confusing my feelings for the sandwich with my feelings for the friend. So, if I've got a friend named "Crap Hoagie" and I really like him (despite his terribly unfortunate name), then when I'm out for a meal and I see "Crap Hoagie" on the menu, I think fondly, "I like Crap Hoagie, I think I'll order me some of that."

Don't you know it, the quality of the friend has nothing to do with the quality of the sandwich, but now I'm stuck with a bum lunch and it's all Crap Hoagie's fault. The next time I see Crap Hoagie I might glare at him most distastefully and he'll only be able to wonder why.

stuff not entirely related to American arrogance
My Morrocan coworker was telling me that she had never been to a hotel in the United States. I was trying to tell her that the hotels were probably not that different. She told me that it didn't matter. She wanted to be able to compare 4-star hotels so that when she was talking with her friends about why Americans are so arrogant she could say, "the conceriege works so much faster in an American hotel." I tried to tell her that I didn't think that was why Americans were arrogant. Then she went on to say that she had read about the phones in the airports. I didn't know what phones she was talking about. Finally after some back and forth she explained to me that she was talking about the phones in the airport at the kiosk for hotels. The ones where you didn't have to dial, you could just pick up and they would connect to the hotel. "See. We don't have phones like that. That's why Americans are arrogant."

I could only laugh. My arrogant laugh.

Don't get pithy with me, Mr.
The problem with getting all excited about life is that it makes going to bed at a reasonable hour so much more difficult.

Reminders from the weekend. It's ok to:
*drink 2 glasses of expensive mango juice.
*be afraid at the movies.
*give a retail bike store a second chance.
*wear sandals and pants.
*talk to strangers.
*sing duets with strangers or friends.
*let everyone laugh at you.
*drink a margarita.
*change tires.
*ride slowly.
*take the scenic route.
*finish the brownies.
*relax.
*go to bed late.
*sleep late.
*not play Ultimate.
*get your hands dirty.

It's not ok
for the weekend to be over.

Jolted awake by "There he is!"
I was reading my morning paper on my morning commute when I flipped open to the feature and had a seizure. It wasn't a real seizure, it was a Why-is-there-a-picture-of-Adrian-H.-peeking-out-over-a-computer-in-my-morning-paper? seizure. I knew the answer, chicagocrime.org, but I was still stunned to see him. Maybe because his hair looks lighter.

OR MAYBE BECAUSE HE WAS IN MY PAPER!

Fast foward some hours and I was asking Autumn if she had read a story I had enjoyed in yet another paper. I was stumbling over the headline, "Its headline was like 'white women in the news' or something."

"I wrote that headline," she replied.

"Oh. Then I guess you've read it."

What a day.

The need. The need for something to write about
I need to write a short 500 word story. It's got to have some imagery or something. If I do it real good, I'll get paid $2 per word. More than likely I won't, but it'll be good to write something. The thing is, as usual, I've got nothing. Give me a suggestion and I'll give you a dollar*.

*If I win.

OR

If you're feeling sorta feisty and writerly, you can go ahead and try and steal my G right out from under this blog by entering yo'self. Get the details. 'Course it wouldn't hurt anybody if you left me something to write about first. I just need something to get started, like three little words for example: Bongo, prairie, dance. You can use those if you want. 497 words to go.

You didn't lose it if they can't take it away
They say that records are made to be broken and I guess they must be right because this past weekend my record fell. "David 4:17.9" will no longer hang above the gymnasium doors. Very soon they will be replaced by Mike 4:17.2" It might seem like my 8 years of glory have come to a close. It might seem like I would shed a tear at such a loss, but it turns out that I'm prouder of that record now than I have been in years. That record motivated countless (or probably more like 8, but 8 of the countless variety) runners. Even though my name comes down, 4:17.9 will always be mine. I don't need a placard in a gym to know that was a special achievement. I'll always know that I've never run faster for 1600 meters.

All of this would have been a lot harder to say 6 years ago. And don't think I didn't take a look at my old track spikes to see if they might have another record run in them. I can't go back to high school, but I'm still theoritically in my prime. But then, you knew that by looking at me, didn't you?

Perspective is for sissies
You know what's tough?

Trying to figure out music genres for iTunes organization.

That's tough.

June 1, 2005
The beginning of something.
Or was it the end?
It was definitely somewhere in the middle.

If it hasn't been said before, or frankly even if it has, I'll say it now- Superfluous is to blogs as Random was to college. It just slips in everywhere. No one can help it. No one can save you.

More stuff you would know if you lived inside of me or close by
1. Lately, I've had the urge to break into a run when I'm walking.
2. I think I am now able to mask my disappointment when I find out someone is married.
3. Marriage is not inherently disappointing.
4. At least I don't think it is.
6. There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but the closer you are to the bottom rung, the closer the lunch is to free.
7. I skipped 5 just to tick you off.
8. I'm thinking I need a vacation. The Washington-Oregon combination is currently leading stateside, while Iceland is momentarily tops in the land of the passport.
9. I am not Deep Throat.
10. The numbers on this list are freakin' superfluous.

Revenge of the Memorial Day Weekend
My weekend was like the new Star Wars for some (but probably not all) of the following reasons:
-I wasted two weekends previously so that I could finally make a good one.
-It was a constant battle of good and evil.
-It had some decent fight scenes.
-The acting was bad.
-Old friends made an appearance, except they aren't old friends yet because this weekend actually takes place before the weekends that already happened.
-Swedish furniture. It had nothing to do with the movie, but otherwise consumed me; not unlike the Dark side. huh.
-Both are over now and I'm none too pleased.

When I grow up
I'm going to be a liar.

I know when it started. It was 1997. All my life I'd worn blue jeans and the occasional sailor suit had been forced on me, but I knew one thing- I would never wear khaki pants. There was no doubt in my mind. I don't remember how it happened, but the next thing I knew I was a college boy and I wasn't wearing anything but.

Fast forward a few years to one of my early solo vacations. I was cruising along in the Carolinas in my khaki pants trying to figure out how to spend my hard-earned vacation days. As a kid, I remember grumbling with my sister about how my parents always skipped doing the fun stuff. When I grew up my vacations were going to be non-stop fun. Turns out the "fun stuff" costs a bunch of money and usually isn't worth it. Why didn't the folks tell me that? I would've understood.

At least I've still got my weekends. I can act like a big kid on those. Weekends are about goofing off for 48 consecutive hours, not for housework or yardwork or anything remotely related to work. It's a great system assuming that I want to continue to live in organized chaos. Turns out I don't. So goodbye Sunday, as I worked all day buying and assembling a Hopen wardrobe, which is just another enormous symbol of my sudden drive for increasing organization in almost everything. And as Monday slowly slips away I look at my mental to-do list and wonder how the heck I got to the point of long mental to-do lists. I never meant to want a clean bathroom, a haircut, a full refrigerator, exercise, a clean room, and on and on. I just meant to play outside with my friends until the streetlights came on.

Maybe that's what I'm going to do. Or maybe I'm a liar.

Concert
She smells of smoke and her lips taste like beer.
He carries a yoke and bathes in his fear.
Strobe lights flashing.
Her hands thrash madly. She pounds the drums.
His head pops at every cymbal crash.
Moved by the moment, carried by the crowd.
They stand still. Hearts like pounding bass.
Feedback. Throwback. Tipped heads back.
Sweat drops. Sweat rolls. Sweat won't put out the fire.
That burns. His insides. Connected and alone.
The music has faded but their ears still ring.
Lust like love before its jaded and their ears still ring.
And buzz. Like the alcohol that's washed away.
Disillusionment and cigarettes both leave that smell.

The white wires of freedom
or further reflections on a digital music player
Perhaps the "white wires of isolation" serve a higher purpose than I initially realized, though despite its divine form, I don't think it serves the higher purpose. In a world where we are increasingly bombarded by visual and audio messages in previously "quiet" places, the iPod and her digital sisters are the individual's latest defense. Take an airport for example. Don't take it, because they cost a lot to maintain and are even harder to store. Many airports constantly bombard waiting passengers with round-the-clock news. Only the deaf can escape the jabbering about the latest breaking story, but iPod offers some relief. A level of auditory control is restored to the individual.

When the beloved Metro adds TV screens to its cars, I suspect that a lot of eyes will wander to the images spewed on screen. I haven't heard if sound will accompany this additional noise, but I suspect there are board members who are unable to differentiate from commuters and consumers. Pupils roll back and are replaced by dollar signs. Marketers must love captive audiences. They are like prison guards that way. In steps the iPod and whisks you away from the evil onslaught. It's a prison break for the senses. Individual freedom is restored. And the orchestra music crescendos. Or the rock rocks. That's the beauty of it. The sounds of the world may have been signed over to someone with more money, but the sounds in your ears can belong to you.

I haven't even begun to address the freedom you regain from the overheard conversation. You can now rock in your own bubble to the likes of Meatloaf* rather than hearing that they guy next to you is having meatloaf for dinner. Glorious. Be careful not to miss all the conversations or you might miss a gem. I was walking through O'hare past a father and his two sons. I missed the first part of the conversation as they stared up at the dinosaur bones, but I heard the father say, "Nobody was born then." The cutest little voice asked astounded, "Not even God?" The dad replied quickly, "God was born then."


*This blogger does not actually recommend rocking to meatloaf, but will accept legitimate meatloaf-for-dinner offers.

This is what two years in the same job is doing to me
This week, I'm not leaving. My job has been stressful but good. My life is not that eventful, but not too shabby. I'm not feeling lonely. I'm not feeling bummed about my injuries-- I'll just exercise by bike. This strange turn of events has lead to a subtle shift in my thought process. I can talk about being vested without cracking up. I still use air quotes when I say "career", because career to me involves some path, preconceived if you're showing off. I'm talking about construction projects in my 'hood like I'm going to actually see them when they are completed. It's kind of spooky. I almost have the urge to start packing up my stuff just admitting this. Fortunately, I'm kind of tired.

The new ol' ballgame
Went to see a Washington Nationals game as Washington area residents are all now so keen on doing. Baseball is kind of fun. At least it was once and I could see how it might be again. I really liked the sax player at the top of the Metro stairs playing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" all jazzed up. The Nats managed a win with a single run in the 9th inning. I clapped and screamed like I cared, but I really didn't. The stadium made me feel a little cramped. At one point this woman's enormous purse in front of me was wide open and as I looked in I thought that giants looking down on the stadium probably thought I looked a lot like that tiny chapstick cap in the recesses of a purse. It would have been really cool if she would have had a replica of the stadium in her purse.

Might I recommend that you don't sit in right field if you want to see the scoreboard. And if you take the Metro, you might want to walk part way home. It could be a nice walk. Some nights I really like the city. Did you know that the Nationals mascot is an eagle named Screech? Did you know that a couple of weeks ago some paper had Dustin Diamond commenting on the mascot? It was Screech on Screech action. That's what it's all about, folks.

Dr. Peerpressure
or
How I started listening to everyone else and ended up in the waiting room

Dang it people. Stop telling me to go to the doctor when I don't need to. Dang it me. Stop listening. My ankle has been bothering me for a week ever since an incident where I rolled it which may or may have not been aggravated by my super smoove dance moves. It swelled up, turned a little purple, and started to transfer pain to other places on my body. Nothing I couldn't handle, but I let people see me limp. I let them hear me whine a bit and they all said "Go to the Doctor. It might be broken." PEOPLE. If it were broken, you'd see bone. Or at least I'd be wincing a lot more. Do you see me wincing? Exactly. Then I heard, "Oh, but when I broke my ankle it didn't hurt." Well, shucks I reckon I don't know what I ought to do. So I called the doctor. Immediatlely the blue color all but disappeared. The pain became minimal and I was off to talk to the Doc and feel like a real doofus.

"Der. Hey Doc. Nothing's wrong really. Just wanted to visit. Find out for sure that nothings ain't broken. Der. Here's my copay. La-ti-da."

The crowd likes cake in your hair and other lessons you should learn before your wedding

Overarching lessons to remember: You get the wedding and a life of bliss, make the reception memorable for me.

Lesson 1: DJ or band selection.
a. The DJ is critical. DJs who will accept requests for Madonna's Vogue immediately after playing Like a Virgin should not be hired. You should've done your homework. Consider a divorce. Also ignore that guy vogue-ing alone for everyone. He's not worth the film in your camera.
b. Cotton eyed Joe cannot go on the "Do Not Play" list. It's no wonder you weren't married a long time ago.
c. A DJ with a single letter as a name could suck. The "E" in DJ Lizzy E might not stand for ecstasy. Just sayin'.

Lesson 2. Make room for the dancers.
I'm not talking about the chorus line here, the flailers and the faux breakdancers need room to work. Provide that space and make it accessible to as many tables as possible. People that can find an excuse not to dance will likely "sit this one out."
2a. Leave a clear path for the "love train." It's a wedding people.
2b. The chicken dance is entirely optional.
2c. The kids love the YMCA. If you don't, you shouldn't have kids. Think about it.

Lesson 3. Tiny dancing asian girls are adorable, especially in pink dresses.
Note: This should evolve naturally. Hiring four year-olds to dance at your wedding is generally frowned upon.

Lesson 4. If I am the life of your reception, it's a low-key affair.
I'm not saying that I haven't pulled out some killer moves- diving into a groomsman's arms, piggyback rides, vogueing all alone. It's just that I'm a sideshow. Your party needs more of the elephants and flaming jugglers on trapez.... PSST. It's a wedding not a circus Oh. Right. Still. I'm not life-of-the-reception material.

Lesson 5. Speaking of me-- I'm aware that I'm sweating. I can actually feel it. The pointing it out to me-- PROBABLY UNNECESSARY. Thanks.

Lesson 6. Food. Drink. People like. Do it right. Two words: Tiny quiches.

Lesson 7. This is fun. Act like it, people. It's not like anyone's life hangs in the balance.
Oh. right.

Lesson 8. Cut that guy off. He's had enough.

More quick hits
1. The white wires of isolation run from our ears, the soundtracks of our lives all jampacked on a tiny futuristic box. Some bob their heads slightly moved by the music. Is this the Johnny Carson of our generation?

2. Why is it that in a time when everything is getting faster and faster, Instant winning takes longer? It used to be right there on the wrapper. Now you have to go online to see if you've won.

3. I carried a cell phone all day long and have suffered no ill effects. The problem, you see, is that when the phone rang I answered it and when I needed to make a call, I made it. That's what cell phones are for, you're saying. And I repeat- the problem...

4. I smell like trash. Marry me?

Look Steve, MEANING
Mr. Jobs has given my life new meaning. It's all about organizing, but it might be fun. Especially when I stop feeling like I need to wear plastic gloves to play with my new toys.

P.S. I'm cutting myself off from the "real world" and hibernating in the digital land.

Hopeless romantic no more
I’m almost frightened by the pleasure I take in the line from “you to thank” on Ben Folds new album Songs for Silverman.

In a song about weddings/marriage, the line goes a little something like: “Maybe they knew more than we knew/ As they danced and drank/ We jumped off the deep end

"Dave! Dave! Tell us about your No Pants Day! adventures"
Such is the chorus (in the mind) of a pantsless superstar.

Sit down my loyal fans and listen to this trouserless tale.

Fully-panted I made my way through another day of work. When the proverbial whistle blew I shed the shackles of the week and busted a seam right out of there. Some hours later dressed to the sevens (pants are worth two, or so I've heard) I made one final self examination in the mirror. No lumps, not that it was that kind of examination, nor is that a joking matter. Regardless, my super-starched shirt was in place beneath the black and silver vest and the sporty tuxedo jacket. A last minute adjustment to the lip-smacking red bow tie and a glance at the nearly black "Meet the Parents" boxers and I was out the door. My wingtips and black socks didn't even carry me a block before I heard the first cackle, "Put some pants on!"

"Can't. I'm headed to a No Pants party."

Off I went down the street, no doubt cutting a dapper outline against the moonlit sky. Moonlit here being the poetic way of saying light-polluted sky, but nobody says "light-polluted sky." Moonlit it is and I'm headed to the transport preferred by city slickers like myself. Good evening sweet Metro, please don't arrest me kind sirs. And they obliged.

Gliding on a moving staircase, I emerge, like a half-dressed God, onto the Metro platform where I am greeted by a throng of my fellow Friday nighters. Not my fellow Friday nighters as they all seem to have on their pants. Some chuckle. Some move away and some just stare. I smile. I stifle a giggle. Happy No Pants Day, I think to myself.

The train arrives and I stand waiting for the door. The doors open and a woman strides out. She looks at my shiny red bow tie and exclaims "nice tie." "Thanks," I say as she looks south. A quizzical expression crosses her face as our paths diverge.

My arrival at the party does not go unnoticed. While others have contributed to a growing pile of pants at the door, I have entered without pause; I have entered without pants. I won't be the last of the evening, but I will be the best dressed. I'm the prom date your mother warned you about. Only much older and probably a lot more innocent despite my glaring lack of suspenders. I'll spend the evening with the many Hefners in their bathrobes. A man in a lab coat and no pants will befriend me and a Superman in his tights will ignore me to hit on one of the many skirts.

At one point in the evening I will land on the couch. I'll watch as a small amount of dancing goes on around me. The kilted will shake their drafty moneymakers, as will the many boxered and t-shirted. Suddenly. I said, Suddenly, without warning, I will be attacked. My lap as dance floor and somehow after at least 14 years of planning I will be dumbfounded. Only able to throw my hands up in the air to fend off this surprising manuever, I will be laughed at yet again. It will not be the last time. It seems to come with the pantsless territory.

Many hours later, when No Pants Day begins to blur into the day after No Pants Day, I make my way home. Saying goodbye to the woman in lingerie and the Hefner that hosted it all I head back to the public transportation continuing my public display of calves.

Who should I meet? A pantsless Santa Claus! No. I'm lying.
I met a woman who was either high, drunk, or some combination of the three. She was very sweet when she was lucid. Try as she might, she could not fathom the location of my missing pants. At least three times she asked, "Where are your pants?"

digitalization of my face
i am one step closer to being just like everybody else. My pictures, my music, my life is becoming digitized.

When the pants come off
things just aren't quite the same.

There are moments when I feel pretty funny
I was at a wedding shower this afternoon. At that shower, each guest was asked to share one piece of advice with the bride-to-be about her impending matrimony and beyond. There were nearly 30 people in the room. We went around the table, and I quickly deduced that I would be giving the last piece of advice. I was surrounded by people that had been married for years, several as many as 25. Several had been married more than once. A few people made jokes, but mostly everyone took to giving advice quite seriously. Most of the advice fell into one of three categories. They told the bride-to-be to communicate. They told her to compromise. And they told her to keep her own identity. Heartfelt advice came from nearly every person's mouth. It was impressive and I couldn't think of a thing to add, except...

I looked at the group around the table and I said, "I'm feeling unqualified to offer much advice." There were a few snickers. I turned to my friend, the bride-to-be, and I said, "So I'll tell you my favorite advice to give, 'Ignore unsolicited advice.'"

Dear Hollywood,

I hate you. I hate the way you make love look like it's such a snap. Even when you put up little titles that say things like "three years later," it still seems so simple and instantaneous. Do you have any idea how long three years really is? It's a lifetime, especially for small children. I realize that on the whole you've done a remarkably good job of keeping the small children out of love, even in your romantic comedies, but you have to consider that in some ways I am still very much a small child and if you make something like love and romance seem easy, then I will want it for my own. And I'll want it quickly without all of the extra work. And when it doesn't just fall from the sky, I will have no one to blame but you. So, Hollywood, from this point forward, I would prefer that you portray love more accurately, or at the very least stop me from going to movies such as, A lot like love, because if Ashton Kutcher can make things go all happily ever after, then by golly why can't I? Further, if you continue to make these sappy movies and continue to allow me to watch them and think, "I had something like that once" and there were moments were "it was that easy", then I'm never going to move on and I will instead always be stuck in a freaking fantasyworld of your making.

Take some responsibility here and clean up your act, Hollywood. Romantic comedies are destroying marriages and forcing old lovers to reunite unwillingly. Bring back the singing and dancing of yesteryear. At least in those films the leads had to be frickin' talented to end up in love. Now any regular guy can meet the girl of his dreams and fall in love. What kind of message is that sending people?

I hope your spouse spits in your popcorn,
David

Speckled blue memories of Mexico?
Just listened to her new love, Jesus the Mexican boy. It took me back to a little yellow house I lived in when I was the less than two hands old. It didn't really take me back to the house as much as it took me back to a seat. The seat of my first bicycle was soft and vinyl, or something resembling vinyl. It was a banana seat, blue like the bike, with three quarters of a silver halo on the back end. Trapped beneath the blue vinyl were shiny blue specks. In the right light, or most any direct light, the specks seemed to dance on the elongated seat. I can almost remember my dad holding onto the halo, as I gripped the handlebars. I certainly recall the street where I learned to ride. It was 50th street. It was flat as could be and lined with well-trimmed lawns, perfect landing spots for a biker in training. The bikes brand escapes me now, as does the shape of the handlebars, but that seat I can almost press my 20 years older hand against its squishiness and watch the blue specks sparkle between my fingers.

Where I'm at, Ultimate-ly
I'm in a place where I am more excited to go watch a team I've been hollering at for two years than I am to play. I'm in a place where I can't see waking up in 6 hours to go prove myself to the new team in town. I'm so tired of recovering, the what I'm recovering for is starting to slip away.

Where I'm at, Halo-listicly
I spent the better part of my evening in video game "Kill. Kill. Kill." mode. I think I had some pent up aggression because I've never enjoyed Halo so much.

Where I'm at, Galaxylylyly
Saw the movie based on the book based on the radio show by Mr. Douglas Adams. The movie reminded me how much I enjoyed the books. In and of itself I thought it was fairly unmemorable.

Where I'm at
No turntables. No microphone. One jar of honey, tipped over, but bagged. One crumpled gray hoodie. One microfiber towel, folded then crumpled. One blueberry iMac on its decline. One vain calendar complete with Grandma and Prom Date. One safari hat atop one stuffed cushy backpack next to one comfy looking purple sheeted beddy bye.