I've got the Syndication Blues
My TV-watching is creeping up. That 70s Show, Everybody Loves Raymond, Friends, and Seinfeld are on like 40 times a day. It's nearly irresistible. Sometimes I switch between them, 'cause they are all on at once. So it's like That 70s Loves Seinfeld Friends. It's this Voltron of Television. And in this case, the sum is totally not greater than the parts. I end up missing all the jokes. I have to resort to laughing with the laugh track and that makes me sad. Three kinds of sad. There's the "Why can't I just control myself?" sad. And the "You've already seen this episode twice" sad, and then the "And I'm just talking about twice this week" sad. Then I get the sniffles. It's nothing. There's something in my eye.

Chandler, hold me!

A brief history of cake and the call for a breakfast burrito
Birthday cake has had its day. Hundreds of days, really. Thousands even. Sometime in the late 1830s, when egg sales were sagging, the esteemed John Crooker decided he could inject life back into the egg market, though not the egg itself, if he could find a tasty use for the egg. The combination of egg and some other stuff lead to the invention, or discovery depending on your take on cake and its pre-ordainedness, of cake. To make a long story shorter, but not nearly short enough, Cooker unveiled his cake at the anniversary of the birth of his niece Alice and the birthday cake was born. As you know, Alice Cooker went on to marry Ralph Crocker and they birthed Betty who would change the way cooking was done all over the world. And while Betty gets a lot of credit, it was really Alice that was able to spread the cake because she brought the icing. Oh. My. Alice brought the icing like Einstein brought the gravity.

Alice was a natural cheerleader and heavily involved in the church. Using the skills her uncle had taught her, Alice first cranked out cakes for every member's birthday. Later, Alice would put her cake skills into care packages. That church just happened to be the largest church of gold seekers in all of the East coast. When the rush hit, Alice packed up the church care packages and sent the gold seekers on their way with a slice of cake and godspeed. The icing didn't travel well, but the sustenance provided was so delicious and the milk-straight-from-the-cow moustaches so hilarious, that nobody seemed to mind. Since so few from congregation were finding gold, they started a series of bakeries out West called the California Golden Cakes and Icing shoppes. Later the name was shortened to Goldies Cakes.

Goldies Cakes were so delicious that some people forgot about the gold rush all together. Birthdays in the California Territory soon served cake as the primary dish. Meanwhile in the East, Alice and her cakes had become so popular that some people stopped eating vegetables. Increased cake popularity soon spread from the coasts to Middle America. No one really knows how, since people on the coasts at the time considered Middle America nothing more than a big horse trail. Despite that mystery, once a trend like cake takes hold of Middle America and both coasts, there is really no stopping it. Americans everywhere were eating cake on birthdays and often on other holidays. Cake was a rite of passage. Cake was the answer and Where is the fountain of youth? was the question. Cake was the hottest thing since tobacco. There were cake sales and cake parties. There were cake dances and cake town meetings. Abraham Lincoln said, "let them eat cake" when asked about the growing rivalry in the North and South. Little did he know...

It's fairly obvious where I'm going. Cake is wonderful, but wouldn't you rather have a Birthday Breakfast Burrito? Cake had the gold rush and the civil war. Cake had Daniel Boone and Perry Como.

I see an opportunity here. It's time to replace cake. It's time to unveil the Birthday Breakfast Burrito. It's different. It's spicy. It reflects the current values of America. Cake is passe. Cake was great for what it was, but the Breakfast Burrito has so much potential. It's about melding cultures. It's about getting a complete meal in the morning. Fight obesity. Be patriotic. Enjoy the salsa. Celebrate your special day with a Birthday Breakfast Burrito. Carpe Diem means just a little more when it starts with egg, sausage and a hint of oregano wrapped in a fresh hot tortilla.

The Breakfast Burrito is the new cake. Blow that out.

Live. Nude*. Customer. Service.
I gotta tell you- I've been pleased as punch with speaking to actual human beings when I'm cashing in gift certificates for purchases lately. They're friendly. They're helpful. One of them even gave me a dollar!

I love the Internets, don't get me wrong. It's a wondrous convenient place to siphon my money, but every so often, it sure is swell to talk to somebody to place an order for llama**.

Operators are standing by. Call now!

*The nudity of said service is unverifiable.
**No animals were harmed in my purchase. Uh. Er. Unless you count the cows that will be made into steaks. They're a little bit harmed.

Back and buckin'
Lick the salt.
Shoot Jose.
Suck the lime.
Ride the bull.
It seemed straight-forward enough. Yet, I was nervous. I didn't know what I was doing, and not just with the tequila.

Mechanical bulls are bucking saw horses covered in faux-cow skin. Immobile, they look harmless. Headless, buttless, completely still animals often do. To notice the mechanical bull's natural habitat is to question how harmless such a contraption really is. Anything surrounded on all sides by three-foot thick brown cushioning is either dangerous or fun. I was about to find out that this particular breed was a little bit of both.

The riding advice I had received earlier in the evening was of little to no help, but the bull operator must have taken pity on me when I foolishly reached for a second riding glove.

"You only need one," he said beneath his brown cowboy hat. Sheepishly I put the left glove back as he pantomimed the bull-riding posture I should take. "You grab hold and throw the other hand back like so."

I half-heartedly mimicked his gesture.

With a little hop off the cushioning, I climbed up on the bull. The cowboy told me to scoot up. "Git that hand in real close, almost in your crotch."

I did as I was told.

The sign for buck is to throw that ungloved hand up. It wasn't long before the bucking began. At first it was a little like riding a drug-store horse that takes quarters. I may have been a little dramatic in the early part of that ride. When the "head" went down, I leaned back and when it came up, I leaned forward, all the while gripping tightly with my knees and my hand close to my crotch. It wasn't complicated, or even particularly fun. Just really funny and a little awkward. As the bull got more comfortable, or as the operator saw that I did, there was more bucking and even a little twisting. I got caught in a funny position and realizing I had two rides left decided not to fight it and tumbled to the cushions.

I popped right up and rode again. This time the bucking and twisting came faster, but I had the rhythm and the giggles. I found it hard not to laugh as I was spun and rocked all over that bull's home. I rode a good long while, perhaps as much as 30 seconds before I grew tired of having my knuckles slammed into my privates. Again rather than hold on with too much pride, I tumbled off.

I stood up again, a little less ready for my final ride.

"You can take a break," said the cowboy. Sweeter words have not often been spoken.

So I took a break. During my break I considered the chafing on my thighs. I considered the awkward way that my back had been turned. Most of all I considered the giggles. Mechanical bulls make me smile.

I readied for my final ride. When I motioned to the operator that I was going in, he smirked at me. I had a hunch I knew what that meant, but I was ready. Probably four whole seconds of ready before the bull bucked me right off laughing most of the way to the ground.

"That's when I have my fun," the cowboy smiled. "The third ride is for me."

"I figured," I smiled back.

After that I watched the bull toss the likes of frat boys, cowboys, and 45-year-old birthday girls having a whole lot of fun. I watched the bull get seduced, ridden backwards, and treated like a diving board. A debate roared inside of me. Chafe some more and ride the bull or wait for another day.

My legs won out, but I will ride again.

Time out
Sometimes it feels like everyone is watching and listening and I can't hide. On those days, I erase blog posts and feel very paranoid. Today is one of those days. It snowed last night. But then you knew that. Because you're watching. In the old days it was enough to gossip among the people I knew. Now I end up gossiping to the general Internets. Gossip to the general Internets doesn't feel right. I'm going to take a few days to think about what I've done. It's very age 10. You should try it.

Mmmm.
I like that the Godiva Hot Chocolate packet says please.
Please prepare Godiva Hot Cocoa with milk only.

I think I like my generic Marshmallow Avalanche Hot Chocolate better though.

Remember this kids: Manners and a fancy box will only get you so far.

The post went sour
This was going to be a self-deprecating post. It might have been clever, but not entirely on purpose. It was going to be a post about a boy, who by most definitions was now a man, had overcome some obstacles, though not the obstacles to very likely become a winner. The boy was proud, but rather than admit it, he'd announce that he was a winner with a smirk on his face.
"I'm a winner, but..." he'd say. The list of buts wouldn't be long, because the boy's ability to mock himself was limited by his pride. Age-old struggle. Modern-day twist. "I'm a winner, but only in my age group of paying members of my running club. It's probably 10 or 15 people."

The smirk would say "It doesn't matter."

The eyes would tell a different story.

In the seeds of the thought that was going to lead to the self-deprecating post, the boy realized something. He was a winner. He is a winner. Somewhere he thought he heard Dr. Seuss giggling, but he pressed forward with the idea that had been in the seed. Every event, every competition, everything he'd ever been in was about a niche. He was proud when he was the best runner in high school. Heck, he was proud when he was the best runner in his class. Whittle it away and that wasn't 10 to 15 people. Sure, there were 400 people in the class, but he only had 5 teammates his age. If it was ok to be thrilled by being 1 out of 5, then it's ok to be thrilled to be 1 out of 10. Why not relish the victories of a niche? Because before any of us can be best in the world, we have to be best in the room. And then best in the building. Best in the city. The county. The state. The country. The hemisphere. And there's no reason not to relish every step of the way. There's no reason not to take pride in besting those 10 to 15 people. And better yet, though the boy hasn't mastered that lesson nearly as well, there's no reason not to take pride in trying to best those 10 to 15 people. More than winning, it means something to attempt to win. Or even to attempt to best, or just test one self. To be proud to get out and run a 5k in 19:31, a mile in 4:52, 3000 meters in 10:14, another 5k in 17:56, and then 10 miles in 66:04.

Whether those were age-group victories or not, doesn't the attempt and the gratification that came with each race make the boy a winner?

And isn't self-deprecation so much easier to read?

Winter has its moments
Coffee-flavored gelato (Gelato! as the sign says) at the cafe that I pass by twice everyday. The hot chocolate and letters written to the sounds of Dawn Landes, Hem, and Autumn Defense. The laundry was done until I went and perspired again. I sat, quietly on a bench, and tried so hard not to wait. It always feels like I'm waiting, but I don't want to always be waiting, sometimes I want bench-riding to be, to be, the activity. I got a real letter today. I think my friends are trying to make sure the post office doesn't die. I finally made it to the post office, myself. I'm trying to do my part too. I helped a lady pick up what she'd dropped, which inspired me to try to help a man save a button. He was too quick. I am not a button-saver. When I said "thank you," I meant it. I think the clerk knew, because she smiled. It looked like a real smile. I think I still know the difference. I'm not sick. The words are coming out and I like the way some of them sound. It feels like I'm pushing at the door that opens up to the hallway that leads to a good place. But then the darkness comes so fast. The good things that happened in the light, fall into the shadows. The trees get naked, but they don't seem to enjoy it. It doesn't smell like snow yet, but the sky remembers. Then the stars remember. Then I remember- this used to be my favorite season.

Thanks, Holmes
Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtaxed.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

This seems ridiculous
I was in a room in a circle of chairs. I was surrounded by the clean versions of ten dirty, smelly guys I watch play Ultimate. They were basically trying to decide if they wanted the next six months to be about taking themselves and their sport seriously or whether to play the same breed of Ultimate that they've grown accustomed to. It was a heated, but respectful discussion. They spoke eloquently and passionately on both sides. They talked honestly and openly about how the decision affected their lives. Then when everyone present had had a chance to express himself, they voted. I was amazed. It was one of the most beautiful meetings I have ever attended. These guys that yell and scream at each other for the stupidest things were articulate and intelligent and genuinely cared about each other.

And me? I'm struggling to determine how I fit in here. I said almost nothing. I do almost nothing. Except be. (And this time also prepare a calendar for the next two months of training, adding some direction to the otherwise pie-in-the-sky attitude.) Mostly though, I just am. I'm a resource, I guess. I'm told I'm a calming force. I'm trying to accept these roles, because I can't take part in the roles I'm used to. It's a helpless feeling. Sometimes it's a useless feeling. To be a part of something, but not be able to contribute in ways that feel like contributions. How do I translate "calming influence" into defensive plays? How do I translate "cheerleader" into scores? They don't quite translate.

So at the end of the meeting, I'm brimming with pride because I just got to take part in a very special moment with very special intelligent, passionate people. And I'm ready to cry because I don't get to play the part that I'm used to playing. I can work hard. I can calm and cheer, but can I make that enough? Can I make that what I need? Or enough of a part of what I need to make this worthwhile. Or can I find something to offer that is enough? I'm concerned because these guys now know what I know. Is it time to let them go out on their own? Or when this class leaves will they need me more than ever?

See title, but maybe it isn't.

Let it hair
Do you think a man with a beard is more likely to neglect his garden than a man without a beard? Do you think a man with a garden is more likely to neglect his beard? And what of the bearded-woman and her garden?

The difference between the sound of cut hair falling from my head and cut hair falling from my face is like snow and sleet.

For good skiing head to the top, but beware of the thin patches. Obstacles may exist. If my head were a bowl, I think the best run would be off the ridge down the backside and over the sweet bumps. Conditions vary. Ski at your own risk.

I'm thankful for mid-race advice and good competition
Saturday I ran in a 10-mile race called the Turkey Burn-off. I've been running lately with some consistency, but I haven't really been training for a distance like 10 miles. I set my sights on a 7-minute per mile pace, fully aware that such a pace might prove difficult. The morning of the race, I forgot my watch, which meant that tracking my 7-minute pace would also prove difficult. It didn't really matter. It never really matters. Nobody's watching. Nobody that knows me anyway. The only expectations are my own and they aren't very high (at least I claim they aren't.) I didn't want to slack off. I'm in the thick of an age-group Championship Series fight. Finishing, being out in the park, scoring a point or more in the CS, and 70 minutes if I could do it, were the goals.

I lined up in the middle of the starting pack and waited for "Go." Distances, especially the unfamiliar ones are tricky. Get out too fast and feel the pain later. Get out too slow and never catch the competition. There was an added wrinkle in this race. About half of the people would be finishing the race at 5 miles, while the other half turned around and ran the course again. So, I knew I could easily find myself in a battle with someone that was almost done. I had to make sure I wasn't sprinting with 5.5 miles to go. I picked people off easily for a mile or two or three. I felt tired, go-home-and-go-to-bed-tired, but not running-tired as I counted down the miles. Seven to go, I laughed to myself. My last 10 mile run was probably, oh, I don't know- October 31, 2004, in the midst of a marathon.

At about 3.5 miles into the race, I pulled even with a man in a "Hashathon" shirt. I never found out what that meant, but I read it numerous times. I'd pass Hashathon on the flats or the downhills and as soon as the course sloped up (and it did many, many times) Hashathon would come powering right on by me. After about his fifth trip by, I said, "You've got some serious hill legs." He chuckled and said, "Just lean into the hill."

Hashathon pulled away from me a little as we made the turn at the five-mile mark. I was fully prepared to see 38 minutes or even 40 minutes on the clock at the turn. Instead I saw 33:17. I was running almost 2 minutes below my goal pace. I may have wondered briefly about the coming leg explosion, but mostly I realized that Hashathon could quite possibly drag me into an excellent finish and I'd be foolish to let him get away. It was downhill after the turn and not surprisingly I soon made up the gap. I pulled ahead of Hashathon and leaned into the next hill. He came even with me on the hill, but didn't pass me. The next hill he stayed tucked in behind me. We neared mile 8 and were closing in on a man in front of us. I could feel the gap widening between Hashathon and me. I looked over my shoulder and hollered, "Get up here. I need you." I don't know if he heard. I don't know if he already knew how much of a difference he'd made in my race. I knew I didn't want him around during the last hill, but I didn't want to shake him with miles to go. Shake him, I did. He probably faded a little as I sped up a little closing in on my next victim. I whipped by the blue-shorted gentleman and arrived in no man's land. I couldn't see a soul in front and I was pulling away from the three or so behind me. Then, I spotted a balding shirtless man with a sizeable lead on me. I hungered for one more place. I don't know why, but fortunately I don't think about those things during good races. It doesn't matter, doesn't enter my head. I hope admitting it here won't change that. For at those moments it matters.

Balding, shirtless, and way in front of me, but forward. I wasn't going to look back at those I'd passed. I was looking up and going after those ahead. Forget pace. If there is any indication of the kind of race I'm having, that's the key. With a little over a mile left in the race, my stomach finally realized that I was running 10 miles. Nobody asked my stomach if he wanted to chug through 10 miles. Maybe, somebody should've. Angry stomach, tired legs, and a little over a mile until the bananas table. B-A-N-AWWWW. That side stitch hurts. I shortened my stride. I shortened my breath. And plunged on. I didn't seem to be losing ground to the man in front, but I was running out of real estate. A blessing. A curse. A blessing- just get it over with. Lumbering now, like a man untrained for a 10 mile burn-off. I had fleeting thoughts of being passed from behind. I had fleeting thoughts of punching the guy standing quietly on the sidelines. I had fleeting memories of last year's marathon. About the only thing not fleeting were my feet. Finally, with barely a finishing kick I climbed the last incline and crossed the finish line. 1:06:04*. I'd run the second half faster than the first? I don't know how it happened, but I knew that it would have been a different race without Hashathon. He arrived half a minute later and I thanked him. Happy Burn-off to one and all.

*The time has been corrected. The race organizers decided to take back the free 28 seconds they had given me. I'm still pleased.

Pride and what?
I knew when I said yesterday that Pride and Prejudice was fantastic that I was setting the bar pretty high. I really meant Keira was fantastic and the movie was good. Walk the Line is fantastic. Reese Witherspoon is downright amazing. Joaquin Phoenix is really good. The music and the pace of the film are great. After the movie was over, I kicked the iPod in gear and listened to a couple of hours of the real June Carter Cash. I don't have any Johnny or I would've listened to that too. Wow.

Close up and prejudice
In a 2 hour and 9 minute movie, one could hardly ask for more Keira close-ups. I'm going to estimate her screen time at somewhere around the 1 hour and 53 minute mark. Most of that time spent from the neck up, sometimes even the back of the neck. I think I'm trying to sayPride and Prejudice was fantastic.

Newspapers can't die
Then who would print tiny snippets of blogs that I read? Further legitimizing the rantings of friends and strangers for morning commuters everywhere (in the Metro area. So long as they read Express.)


It's a weird world we live in. People like me continue to spew thoughts and opinions OUT for all to digest if they so desire, then newspapers pick that up and print it and credit a website as if a real person didn't even write it. Odd. Disturbing. Kind of fun.

Motivation
"I heard you used to be faster," he said to me as we were jogging out to the stack in a friendly game of Ultimate.
"Whaaat?" I screeched. "Who said that?"

It didn't matter who said it. I didn't want to hear it and now the messenger was going to pay. I was going to inflict pain the only way I know how- passive-aggressive whining. NO! The other only way I know how, by running and running and running until those around me are reduced to only pants and grunts. This used to be more effective, but I've still got a good bit of endurance left in me. From that moment forward, every one of his cuts was going to be contested and every one of mine would be at full speed. He would strike first, much to my dismay. He's not a slouch. Then I would quiet him. I scored. I attempted a greatest or two. I played mean defense and always, always lined up across from my new nemesis. It didn't take long, before he left the game for a rest. When he returned I went after him again until finally I heard what I wanted to hear, "That's the last time I get him going."

I think maybe I need to take things personally more often. That was fun.

The dandruff of home
There's frost on the ground; it's a little like somebody left the earth in the freezer a little too long. Saturday morning and I want to be home. I don't want to be where I live, I want to be where I was raised. I want pull on my robe, stand inside the front door and steel myself. I want to fling open the door, quietly, because my family is still sleeping. Glancing out the door and down the drive, I want to eye my target- the morning paper. "Are there any evening papers left?" I'd think as I bound down the porch steps. My bare feet would slap cold, very cold concrete as my robe flew open. Bending at the waist while still moving forward I'd reach down and grab The Star as I skidded to a stop. My feet would be uncomfortably cold as I zipped back up the steps and into the house, pulling the door shut behind me. The sigh of re-acclimation, the promise of hot chocolate, and the minutes of solitude before my parents rise would greet me in the kitchen.

"Morning," I'd say, wrapped in familiarity.

Shake. Shake. Shake.
What if we did things right when we thought them? Are the purest desires caught in reactions?

I went for another run. Running is making a big comeback around here. I bought some blue and tangerine shoes. The runs keep me sane, usually. Today I was plodding through the motions. My world took a bit of a shaking this afternoon in one of those unexpected ways. My initial reaction was denial. After that, I was moving to France. Life is really fragile. Stability is an illusion. Barely able to function in my current situation, I plotted out multiple escape routes. France was the clearest, and only because someone told me they could see me in France. So is that escape route any more valid than the usual inertia that keeps me in place? Or does it come down to the post-choice choices? Say I move to France. That affects a few things, my address for one, but how much does it affect life. France is cleary unstable. Life. Unstable. Life in France, not so stable. And when did stable become so valuable anyway?

I need a shower. I need dinner. I need to take a deep breath.

Yes, but I don't care
In the first five seconds, he'd told me his intention to become an intern. Within a minute I knew his college of choice, a brief history of the struggles he'd overcome and his promise to adapt to this and any situation. I had fetched him from the lobby, but my contact with the new temporary employee was supposed to end there. He latched on, seemingly searching for the right phrase that would allow me to rise above my status as a bottle-washer and elevate myself to hiring manager; he, of course, could be my first hire. He was new. He was nervous. He knew what he wanted. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and the benefit of my uncomfortable smile as I pawned him off on someone else. That wouldn't be the last I saw of him. Later in the day, unprompted, he'd tell me how quickly and efficiently he'd dispatched of the menial tasks my colleagues had set before him. I smiled awkwardly and said, "good."

I thought it was just me until he made a phone call. "I have a tendency to exceed expectations," he told the person on the other line.

I have met the proudest temp on the planet.

Not yet a novelist
I fold. I'm not in a noveling mood and I'm not in a mood to suffer attached to my chair, regardless of the triumph at the end. I've decided to suffer physically instead. I'm not going to be a National Novel Writing Month Winner, but I don't think I'm a loser. I wrote 5,000 or so related words and another 2,000 unrelated words. That's not all bad. I've got another 15 days to write some other stuff. at my leisure. No pressure.

Kenny Rogers said, "You've got to know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away."
G. Love and Special Sauce said, "Could I get a cold beverage? I need some leverage."
The Phunk Junkez said, "What the F$%@, Chuck?"
And I say, so there.

Ketchup time. Other condiments not included
Just saw a bumper sticker that read, "Frodo failed. Bush has the Ring." I was around the corner before I laughed.

Fall
I feel a bit like someone has a hold of my trunk and they are shaking the leaves off of me.


College Ultimate
Somewhere between clown, glorified cheerleader, college-age male, and voice of quiet reason is where I stand on the college Ultimate scene these days. The ride south was spent in headbanging, screaming, speeding, obnoxious splendor. Somewhere in that madness a cheer was born,

Have you heard of the Popemobile?
Yes we've heard of the Popemobile.
Big and strong and made of steel.
Big and strong and made of steel.
1-2-3
The Pope says Win!

Invoking religious leaders will only get you to .500. It's a step in the right direction.

The ride north was spent in calm discussion of good things- life, Ultimate, brilliant traffic-dodging schemes.

Somewhere in the middle
I knew as the dare was being issued that I would be unable to resist. A karaoke bar, a bunch of new people, the promise of a Bailey's payoff, and a willing partner named Emily meant that my heart would go on. When they called my name, Emily was missing. I made my way up to the mic and did my best Celine. Emily was pulled from the bathroom by my new best friends and she joined me to sing back up. The reviews came in at "better than expected." Barbara Ann as part of a dashing trio of gents was certainly better than that. I think I understand the draw of this karaoke a little more now that I've done it outside of the American Legion.

The pre-run post
!#!$#@%@$!%$@!$%Kinkos!#$!$#!$!##$!$#@!$#!$#{violently remove tie and hurl it into the corner}!#!$!@#$!#@#$!$#!#$!$!@$meeting!#$!$#!#$#@!${consider gouging eyes out and/or ripping face off}@$%!@#$!$#!@$#@!$@%^$@^^*$.

The post-run post
My life is a postcard. Wish you were here.

I think maybe I need to run more.

I blame television
I realize that blaming television doesn't make me that different from a lot of people, but I'm going to do it anyway. I blame television for all of my recent negativity. Pre-TV, I was a happy-go-lucky young man, but since TV re-entered my home, it's been a long drop down. Television creates a climate of instant gratification and I'm finding more and more that my life doesn't work that way. When life doesn't work that way, I turn back to television.

It's blatantly unfair.

Oh, I've controlled my consumption. I'm well below the national average, but I don't think much of the national average. And my average is growing along with the darkness of winter. I'm finding myself stuck in my home with nothing to do. Nothing other than read the 4 books lined up and ready to go, play the banjo, write a frickin' novel (not going real well for those of you scoring at home), figure out what to do when there is light. Those things can wait, because "That 70's show" is on for the umpteenth time today.

It's not television's fault, I know. It's mine.

That doesn't make me feel any better.

Tears of a funky chicken
Encased in headphones and cut off from the world, music fills my ears but not the air around me. Sometimes, yes, my foot will take to tapping. Or I won't be able to contain a quick little "dancing catfish," but for the most part my dancing like my digital music takes place in the comfort of my own head. Will I still be able to dance without wires? Am I a marionette and the mini my puppeteer? I don't think I've danced, save in my kitchen and right now in my desk chair, since May.

It's time for a party. The running man begs you. The pony cries out. The sprinkler grows rusty with each passing day. And the robot. Oh the robot.

He was never particularly well.

Return of Kill. Kill. Kill.
I'm not a "gamer." I don't "play the video games." I'm not one to "be able to keep up the quote joke."

Might I say that sometimes it's nice to just kill and be killed in that invincible sort of way with your friends and/or their friends from around the country.

Now, it's "time for bed."

Writing a novel
I promise that every post this month will not be about National Novel Writing Month. This post will be. I started today, which puts me a step ahead of where I was this time last year. I had written about 700 words, or 1.4% when I left to go for a run. This month is going to be great. I get so much stuff that isn't writing done when I'm trying to write. I've already gone grocery shopping, cleaned out the dishwasher, and gone for a 5.5 mile run. The run was particularly helpful today. I was trudging along thinking about where to take my next 1.4% when I realized that I was writing the same novel from last year. I had just convinced myself that I was going to write the novel that I was ready to write. Pretty pleased with that low-pressure philosophy, I was a little caught off guard to find out that I was practically plagiarizing myself. Yes, I'd changed the setting slightly, but I couldn't push myself too far out of the middle of the country. I'd changed genders, but none of that had really shown up yet. Basically I was writing the same characters in the same setting using the same style. Last year was a good experience, really good, but I'm not sure that I want to repeat it. I'm sure neither of my readers would want that either.

So at the risk of destroying a franchise, I'm making a change. I'm going to push myself and try to do things differently. Ah November, such an educational month.

I'm still sticking with my philosophy though, "I will write the novel that I'm ready to write."

Today a cowboy
tomorrow a novelist. I was going to be a potential juror tomorrow, but they've unsummoned me. I'm kind of disappointed. Maybe I should stay home and write.

I went in to work today with a neon green shirt, a carriage on my bolo tie, and a courtesyWild Bill's straw cowboy hat. From the waist up, I was a poorly dressed cowboy. From the waist down, it was even worse. The first two coworkers that I encountered stared at me, but didn't say a word. Finally I said, "It's Halloween." "Oh," they said. Then one said, "I wonder at what age one stops dressing up and just thinks of this as another day."

"I was thinking the same thing last night and I decided I didn't want to find out."

Yee-freakin'-haw.

Don't go to bed frustrated
The weather was gorgeous this weekend. The skies were blue. The air was crisp. I had two brownie sundaes in as many days. So, what went wrong? I made several very sweet catches playing Ultimate. I threw some scores, made some Ds and didn't make too many mistakes. So why is every little mistake haunting me? I'm mad about inaccurate throws. I'm upset about a dropped pass. I can't let go of a disc misread and a blown defensive assignment. Ultimate today was not really fun. I was too busy not being perfect. I was too busy not chucking my body after the disc, too busy throwing over people's heads, too busy making my receivers work too hard to catch scores. The margin for fun grew so small today that I could barely see it. I thought I had it back for a moment when I realized I'd gained an hour, but it's gone again.

Oh. well. at least I have work to cheer me up in the morning...

Double decaf mocha latte
Ordering at Starbucks makes me think of Julie. In the shared yearbook/newspaper computer lab, Julie had recorded a sing-song "DouBLEdeCAFMO-CHAlatte" to replace the usual "ding" that comes with an error message. It was an upperclassman joke, one of the few times Julie allowed class to be a factor. And to be fair, it was the disembodied voice of Julie making a joke, not the actual girl by the time I heard it. Sometimes I'd make an error just to hear it. Julie was some kind of perfect. She treated everybody like an all-star. She had this enormous smile framed beneath her short bowlish haircut. I've never met anyone else who could make that haircut scream style. Julie could do it. She could sit and talk about anything or nothing and her words would hypnotize. I can't remember more than a handful of conversations we actually shared, and yet I always felt included, and more than that, special in her presence. I couldn't have been alone. Her senior year she was voted queen. Somehow in that time when Julie seemed to be looming ever larger, I got to be closer than before. She moved away, but we stayed in touch. Popping in and out of lives, she came and went like a warm hug and a meaningful wink. Even then it seemed fleeting. When the physical distance between us shrank, Julie disappeared from my life. I'd never understood how our lives fit together anyway. Sometimes I get sad that I just let her disappear. I wonder if the universe made a mistake, or worse that I made a mistake, but whenever I step up to the counter "Double decaf mocha latte" doesn't leave my lips.

I can only assume the universe knows what it's doing.

Enthusiasm is like fungus. Only prettier.

Shoestring 15th place
It was a rainy morning, colder than the last few. It was a race day, the first in a month or two. The gun went off and we splashed ahead, a bobbing, breathing pack of runners. Moving up quickly on the fast flat course, I passed Tyler and told him, "Get on your horse." He and I pumped together until we'd nabbed a small pack, then he left me alone as he fell back. Caught between groups I lingered for a while. If I'm alone, am I in single file? I finally closed in and passed two others, but I couldn't shake them despite my druthers. One battled back and overtook me. My shoelace came undone frustratingly. Staring down as it went splat, I thought, what the heck should I do about that? I considered stopping and tying my shoe. I looked back and I looked up. Stopping now just wouldn't do. I pressed on, never losing touch. I dug in, but couldn't find much. As we approached the last few turns, I set up a charge and let it burn. I passed two men and looked ahead for one more pass. My legs burned and I nearly ran out of gas, but I didn't die and I didn't fade. Splat, splat, splat. I finished the race, just like that. My shoestring dangled off of muddy kicks, a quiet triumph of 17:56.

Better than the last race and now I'm in third place (in my age division in the series.)

My pleasing moment of the day
Running through the rain with sweet potato pie.

So, how do you feel about football?
I was crushed to find out that the Cardinals lost last night. I had a tiny rooting interest in the team from the other side of home, but I haven't watched a baseball game in ages. So why was I crushed? A deep hatred for the Astros? Hardly. Then why was I glancing over shoulders and missing parts of conversation to see how the Cards were doing? Why was I watching innings of a game that hasn't held me for more than a few pitches since the last strike? It was all her fault. I had been secretly praying for this series to go seven games. It didn't and I'm crushed because playoff blogs like playoff hopes can't last forever. In her eyes, I could remember baseball as it should be, as my grandpa saw it, and not the way I see it now. She captured those things that don't really matter and made them ache with importance again. Things that aren't money, or steroids. Things like sport and class. Things that make people stand up and cheer.

There's always next year.

I'll give you an E-town review
Kirsten Dunst far outshines Orlando Bloom in this movie. That isn't saying that much. I've seen Elizabethtown compared to Garden State and they are similar. Especially in the soundtrack is better than the actual movie sense. There's some death and some wacky family, but I didn't really give a hoot. There are some magical sparks between Dunst and Bloom or at least there were supposed to be. That must have been lost while someone was picking out music. There's a road trip set to mix tapes which is genius, but by that point all I could think was, "Somebody really wants to sell a lot of soundtracks."

I think what I'm trying to say is, save up for a CD or (a download if you're into that sort of thing) and skip the movie. You won't miss much.

Winning isn't everything
I have cuts and scratches all up and down my arms and legs. There's a raspberry the size of a baseball on my left hip. Those are the post-game complaints. They aren't even complaints, more observations. I'm a little bit proud of my cuts and scratches, although that pride disappears when the water from the shower rains down on me. This is all post-game pain. I want to write about the pre-game.

I used to walk up to the field ready to go. Two laps, a quick stretch, a few throws and I was ready to win. I wanted to win because winning was fun. I'd stand on the line waiting for the first pull of the game. Looking directly across at the person I was about to guard I would pretend to hear his thoughts, "Ha. Look at that gangly poofy-haired goof. I'm going to make a bigger fool of him." I'd squint a little bit, perform the mental equivalent of cracking my knuckles and prepare for this battle, which was now personal. The game and the score mattered because they mattered and that's all that mattered.

Things have been changing the last few years. I teeter on the brink of injury. It's getting harder to make the score matter. For one thing, I realize that I have such a small amount of control on the score. Even when I play my finest game, I'm still just one member of a team. I've also realized that Ultimate is a fun game. Sometimes we win and that's fun. Sometimes we lose. Well-played losses can be fun. Sometimes we don't keep score, and that's fun too.

That's dangerous knowledge. If I'm out to have fun, and winning isn't the only fun factor anymore, how do I play well enough to help my team win? I can't hold a grudge against the people I play against. I see them monthly now and I have for three years. It's not personal. It's people out having a good time and keeping score.

What do I do? Yesterday I got to the fields earlier. I took a walk around the park and looked at the scenery that isn't enclosed in the 70 x 40 rectangle we play in. While I walk I think about the things that I can do right today. I think about playing smart. I think about making good throws and catching well. I think about how to play defense. And I look at the lake from which the fields take their name. I think about the beautiful blue sky and the light breeze. I have a real thing for blue skies. Winning today is not the only thing that matters, but I plan to play my best to help my team win, just to sweeten a gorgeous day.

Me voy manana*
Nervously, he flipped open his electronic pocket translator. His trim pink fingernails lightly pressed the tiny keys. "I am leaving today" flashed on the screen. He paused, touched his hand to his face and then forcefully wiped at his cheek. Staring out the window for a moment, he tugged on his little black-haired ponytail and scrolled to the next entry. "I am leaving tomorrow" appeared in digital print. His flannel-covered shoulders dropped slightly as his gaze returned to a place far outside the window. He shut the translator with a click and then just as quickly reopened it. Pressing the keys, he stared intently at the screen which soon read, "I am leaving tomorrow."

*I don't know Spanish, but I thought that's what I read.

As the World Turns
I saw this woman today. She had a bunch of flowers. She didn't look like a gardner, but she looked familiar. I followed her up the street. It wasn't a stalking sort of follow, I was going that direction. Home was that direction. I didn't have the foot speed to overtake her. I was slowed by trying to place her face. She glanced over her shoulder. She pulled out her phone and started talking. I suspect she was talking to no one. She just wanted me, her follower, to see that she was connected. She wanted me to know that if I was currently debating some vile act like asking her if I knew her from somewhere, that she was busy and her friend on the phone would know about it. I wasn't really debating an act. I was trying to figure out where I could follow without being creepy. This happens too often. I slow my pace. I move to one side trying to get into peripheral vision. Then I just end up wandering to the other side of peripheral vision. It's a creepy little dance. It leaves everybody tense. Finally she crossed the street and I could breathe a sigh of relief. I was exhausted from being a potential killer/stalker/annoying hobo. As I came to an intersection, a man purposefully crossed the street away from me. It wasn't me. It was him. He didn't want to be the potential killer/stalker/annoying hobo. That's the sense I had in the .5 seconds I considered his departure from my path. Was that gender bias? Was my sense real? When is it ok to follow? Is it my awareness of the situation that creates the tension? Do monkeys have this problem?

Not a bad cheer
At the end of Ultimate games there is a tradition of cheering the opponent. The cheers range from simple "Go Team" to musical numbers complete with jazz hands. As the game gets more competitive, this wonderful tradition of the post-game cheer seems to be going the way of the wooden nickel. After some initial resistance, the Catholic team I coach came up with a cheer to be proud of (assuming you enjoy the outskirts of blasphemy.) The cheer with bowed heads and hands held went, "Our St. Mary's who art in heaven, hallowed be thy game. You made us run and that was fun. And now we're done. Amen."

Breaking news
TV fears have been realized. Those of you believing in the power of my self-control were wrong. Couch-potato wrong.

Who is Root Beer?*
I just introduced J-Dub to 15 Midwesterners he'll never meet. The setting was a cavern-like dining room in the basement of a German restaurant or perhaps the restaurant was the basement. Either way, we were below ground and surrounded by mounted trout and large-mouth bass. The impetus was a waiter listing the evening's liquid refreshment. He'd just finished a list of beers by the bottle and on tap, when he casually added "And we serve root beer."

"Who makes your root beer?" I asked in what would turn out to be the beginning of a string of server encounters that may not get the blog time they so richly deserve.

"Sprecher's" he replied.

"Ah," I said with a smile. "I'll have a root beer."

The woman to my right turned to me and asked, "They make good root beer?"

I then began to expound, "In college I had a friend from Wisconsin who would bring Sprecher's to the dorm from his home and share a taste with those of us lucky enough to be in his favor. I remember the first time I was one of the lucky ones. He had promised the finest of root beers from his home. He was as proud of the root beer as he was of his own roots. He sat me down in his sparsely furnished room and reached down into his mini-fridge. Then with the distinct lack of flourish that comes from good Midwestern upbringing, he pulled a bottle of Sprecher's out. He popped the top and handed me the chilled root beer that he had bragged of. I brought the bottle to my lips and took a slow swig. The root beer slid down my throat coating my insides with a passion for both root and beer. 'Thank you, J-Dub. That was delicious,' I cried. He smiled the triumphant smile of a man that knew quality. I returned to my life in progress awaiting my next taste. My home then, like my home now, does not serve Sprecher's. I'll drink this in his honor and in celebration of splendid root beer."


*The title of this post was stolen from a wonderful children's story that my parents read to me. It had talking bugs. I don't think it was a true story. This post may therefore share characteristics with that fine story.

huh.

Coming down
It's some kind of perfect to descend from the clouds onto a dusk lit District and see the Capitol and various memorials from above.

You have no idea
Downtown Indy- Several discussions, a few Ann Patchett books, hell that Tom Wolfe book, and some recent blog posts have me thinking that we have no idea. I mean, for me I'll just look at the last 5 years, which in a typical 80-year life is what? 1/18th of life? and look how much things have changed and how much things have worked out and how much things haven't. Let's look at my job. I didn't want my job in a million years. My job from the outside has basically every element I wouldn't want, now I'm trying to get promoted. Look at my house. It was too small. I was too messy for the Sandwich. My house is almost perfect and I clean the toilets. Look at my friends, they aren't that outdoorsy, they don't love the things that I love, they're these incredible amazing people with no reason to be in my life except that our lives cross and now continue to cross at pivotal moments. Most of the time I don't think they're the friends I'd pick if I saw them on the street, but I'd probably die if they hadn't picked me.

Sometimes I feel guilty because I have no 5-year plan, but I look back at the last five years and think how I could have possibly planned better than this. I've fulfilled multiple dreams. I've laid the ground work for others. In most given spans, I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm going to do it anyway because things tend to work out, nay, The Universe tends to unfold as it should. I'm done now. I've got a Hard Rock T-shirt to go pick up, a complimentary drink to grab, and some strolling around another Midwestern town that I never realized had so many charms. There's never time to do it all, so I figure I might as well enjoy the time I've got.

That's not pink; it's watermelon, baby.
Decked out in watermelon, swamped at work, somewhere between sickness and health, I'm riding a wave of a-ok. The things I generally count on for happiness aren't making their appearances and yet I'm not crumbling. Then again, I did iron my shirts last night (though you'd be hard-pressed to tell) while watching Desperate Housewives (eh.), so it's possible aliens have invaded my body.

Something has changed and I don't think it's the leaves just yet.

I say go see it
What do you say about a movie based on a cancelled TV show that I only watched second-hand on someone else's DVD?

Another season of Firefly might have been better than Serenity, but Serenity might be better than the most recent Star Wars. It was a good movie, not a great one, but the best part to me was being part of the cult. When I walked in the theater I wanted to shout, "Hello fellow nerds." I could feel a familial nerd energy throughout the theater. The laughs were hearty, the clapping sincere. And the post-movie chatter about all things Joss Whedon (you know, the guy that brought you Buffy and various other young girls that kick butt) was hilarious.

Go see it. Me? I'm off to read all of the reviews I've been skipping to keep expectations at a minimum.

Goal-to-guy
Do you have a goal? Do you need assistance in making your goal a reality? Do you not mind amending your goal slightly? Then, I'm your man. I don't set goals of my own, but if you have a pesky goal that you just haven't been able to cross off your list, call, write, or leave a comment and I'll pitch right in.



Disclaimer: I cannot be held responsible if your goal turns out nothing like you had hoped, nor can I be held responsible if your goal is too complicated, too boring, or just too focused for my tastes. In the event that your goal is not met you can expect a full refund of this free service. Time and energy cannot be refunded. Also the statement about goals of my own is now a lie because of her long lists, or maybe it's just about that time. In any event I am struggling to come up with 43 things, but cannot be expected to respond immediately from goal-less to goal-full. That would be unreasonable. This post is not legal tender.

Sometimes I inspire myself
C-SPAN is here. It invaded my living room. I tried to flip channels. I tried two remotes and numerous buttons, but nothing worked. I shut it off. I'm gonna go to bed.

It's not anti-perspirant
The deodorant can't find a home. Atop my dresser, it sits too far out of reach. Access denied by growing piles of clothes, bags both plastic and synthetic, and notebooks with my half-written witticisms. Next to the keyboard it crowds me and blocks my view of important but untouched tiny pewter dining chairs, Hobart Smith CDs, Winne-the-Pooh kid-sized playing cards, toaster instructions, and notes, so many notes with scribbles that even I can barely read. 906 Gravois? 113.03? arrive? Leave? 8:30? It's hard to tell. Harder still with that big red square-ish cylinder creeping too close to the keyboard, invading my typing space. The bathroom, home of toothpaste, well-meaning but oft-ignored dental floss, and contact cases seems like a possible solution. Permanent housing in that neighborhood can be scarce. The sink was bare, but slowly toiletries have begun to accumulate in the flanks. Deodorant could fit. It's a logical place, a decent neighborhood, close to good schools and naked flesh. The underarms would not be much of a commute from the sink. Deodorant rests in its new real estate while showers occur. The wetness of cleaned hands, the reach for the deodorant in its new home, the slippery red missile in the hands of man, Mountain Rush turned skydiver, high endurance turned swimmer, *plop*. The deodorant cannot be a houseboat. Not in the shower. NOT in the toilet. Back to the dresser, buddy. Out of reach is better than in the bowl.

I am not Charlotte Simmons
It doesn't take much to make me miss college. I missed it last night when I polished off dining hall meatloaf. I miss it at 7:54 in the evening when I can't pop out of my door and into a hallway where someone will cheerfully greet me. I miss it when I can't wander a few blocks and find various sports under the lights. I miss the connections, the opportunity, and the potential.

As I read Tom Wolfe's latest with its stylish paperback cover, I missed college. And then 700-some-odd pages later, I didn't. The most frustrating thing about Wolfe's story is that he didn't get it. He certainly captured some of the moments and some of the ethos of bits of university life. I am willing to grant Wofle that university life could be different in a fictional Pennsylvania than it is in the middle of the country. His description of the bar scene was almost poetic in what I see as its accuracy. The problem is that Wolfe's work was almost cliche in numerous sections. He said very little that seemed new and he didn't say it in new ways. Then he repeated himself too much. I am Charlotte Simmons wasn't bad. Even with multiple stints in airport terminals, I don't usually plow through 700- page books in four days, Potter notwithstanding.

What I'm really perturbed about is that this monstrous book about college didn't leave me feeling good the way my memories of college do. Wolfe spent the first half of the book in sensational 11-o'clock-news mode practically warning parents and teenage girls about the dangers of college and boys and the unrelenting quest for sex by both genders, every so often departing slightly to remind us of the mockery of the "student"-athlete. It was crude and exciting, that I'll give Wolfe. When he plunged into his chapter after chapter about depression, it very much depressed me, but it was the resolution of the story that made me most depressed. Wolfe has a leading female character, with "it"- smarts, looks, individuality; and her great triumph is what? Some guy and popularity. I worked 700-pages to get there? Why Tom, why? This isn't a book about high school. I can get a girl meets boy story and a cry in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Come on. That attitude cheats college students and it cheats readers. I expected better.

Wolfe will remain on the list of my favorite authors, but he has officially been passed by Ann Patchett.

Shhhh!
If you listen very closely you can hear my jaw tightening. Remember when I thought I was underworked and overpaid? It looks like the universe is trying to balance itself out.

Keep it down. My head hurts.

Update: NPR reminds me to have a little perspective. There's an evacuation going on. People are running out of gas or stuck in the traffic that comes from 1.1 million people heading north. Government employees are trying to get people out of Rita's way safely. I don't have a clue what overworked and underpaid is. No one lives or dies because of the work that I do. I'm going to go humbly eat my enchiladas and shut my whining trap.

There goes another piece of my soul
Sorry Abba, roommate compromise. The cable lady was calling today, so we must've entered the last week of our cable-free existence. I was telling a coworker about my concerns that TV would captivate me and take over my life. She said, "Grow up and have some self-control."

That's a nice theory.

I'm trying to come up with some other methods of encouraging self-control. I've considered designing a method of locking down the screen and giving the Sandwich the key. That way I'd have to ask every time I wanted to watch the tube. That's a little demeaning. I've thought about counting hours, kind of like dieters count calories. I suppose I could graph those hours which might be fun, but not for very long. I've thought about hiding the remote and then brainwashing myself. Ooooh. Does anyone know hypnosis? Maybe I could set up a couch that would shock me after I'd been on it for an hour, but that would probably just get me watching TV from the floor. I could set up some system of rewards. For every hour of writing I did a week that's how many hours of TV I could watch. That sounds noble, but I can see that one deteriorating at ludicrous speed.

I knew this guy once; he had self-control. Nobody liked him.

They're on to me
Everyday at work I get asked, "How are you?" and everyday I answer something like "fine" "all right" "good" or "fiiine (with a sigh)." Well lately, people have been correcting me.

"You don't look fine." "You don't sound all right." "I know how that 'good' goes." So great, now I'm the only one in the world that can't get away with the pat answer and the scoot scoot scoot, right on out of there? Today I was ready.

So I was asked, "How are you?"

And I answered, "Let me tell you, how I am. I went to a fake park last night. It has this rolling Astroturf grass. And I was sitting between cigarette butts thinking, I wish this park was flat. I wish this was real grass. I wish there was a bench or some privacy. Then I realized. I was relaxing in a busy area. I had a view of the star and the moon. There were clusters of people around me laughing and enjoying themselves. I could people watch. I could lie back and breathe deeply. This was a nice little park framed by street lights. It wasn't the park by my dorm room with the great climbing tree. It wasn't the sports field up the street. It was somewhere completely different and in a way unlike the past, it had its own charms."

All right. So I only answered that way once. Otherwise I'm fine.

another point for the city (all right, so I admit that basically I'm giving variations of the same points over and over.)

Sometimes I have to trick myself into exercise. Saturday was one of those times. I knew that I should go for a bike ride, but I was kind of tired of the same routes. And I wasn't in the mood to just wander around, unless... I decided that I would bike to my friends' place. They live in Virginia and I don't. This meant I would bike in two states and a District. It sounds much more intimidating than it is, except for the part where I had no idea how exactly I was going to get across the river. Well, I assumed there would be a bridge. I just didn't know if I was going to get run over by Hummers.

I set off on my adventure, reluctant to give friends advanced warning in case I got lost, run over, or lazy. I got a little lost, but then suddenly very un-lost as the trail I was on spit me out just a block away from my destination. Sweet. Friends were glad to see me, they'd just called. They served me dinner and then we went out and saw/heard some rollickin' bands. I left my bike at their home and if it hadn't been for the ill-advised cab ride, returned to my home without ever getting in a car. (The cab ride shouldn't count because it was dumb. And we all know dumb doesn't count. The Metro would have done the same job for 12 bucks less.)

Today, I was at work. My bike was on their balcony. And still no cars. (The cab doesn't count!) Then in grand Mr. Rogers style, I switched shoes and shed my belt at work. Not that Mr. Rogers, another one. So, when I arrived to pick up my bike I made a clothing change, rolled up my pants and polo shirt bedroll style and attached it to my CamelBak by way of bungee thingys. I then proceeded to ride home. I again got lost and was unable to make two trails that I really think connect somewhere connect, but I found my way and revisited those same two states and a District. Two magical days of exercise, one really weird itch, and no car later, I'm trying to figure out what my next trick will be.

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.