EFFINGHAM!

Prior to January 4, I had never heard of Sufjan Stevens (actual pronunciation unknown). That evening,Kella mentioned that he had written her theme song. I often appreciate Kella's musical tastes, but I wasn't in a hunting mood and so that was the end of Sufjan and me. Except that a week or so later his album Come on Fell the Illinoise! was delivered to me via Clare-mail.

She said, "Here. Listen to this and get excited."
I said, "Ok. Why?"
"Because they're giving away free tickets on Saturday, January 27 and I need you to go pick them up."
"Oh. Ok." I'm enthusiastic like that.

I listened to Mr. Stevens many times. He does whip out the banjo on numerous tracks which I like. Plus his music is layered and kind of beautiful, but I couldn't find anything that truly hooked me. I kept listening and some of the tunes stuck in my brain for a little while, but I wasn't really excited and I kind of forgot about what day I was supposed to go pick up tickets.

Then, Wednesday night I was out with a friend and we were talking about various hobbies. He said he liked music and that he and his roommate were headed out early Saturday morning to get tickets for, and he said this hesitantly, "Sufjan?" I howled, "Stevens!" as if other Sufjans were giving away tickets on that same Saturday. After some discussion I found out that Sufjan's project is to have an album for all of the 50 states. This strikes me as awesome in a number of ways.

1. I thought Come on Feel the Illinoise! was oddly obsessed with all things Illinois. This helps clear that up.
2. I'm impressed by the sheer magnitude of such a creative undertaking.
3. Since it seems he's started with the places he knows, Michigan and Illinois, I imagine he is going to have to travel to really try to capture other states in an album. Combining travel, creativity, and music is just exponentially cooler than each of those things individually.

My friend is headed out to line up and wait for tickets at 5:30 in the morning. He convinces me that I need not wake up so early. He'll call me and let me know of my chances at 7 AM. This sounds like a good plan to me. He calls and says he thinks if I join them, my chances are pretty good. They are about 600th in line and there should be around 2,400 tickets. I eat breakfast and scurry off. I have on about 5 layers of clothing, plus all the paraphernalia I need to play Ultimate in the afternoon. I arrive at about 8 AM to something like this-

(not my photo)

Faithful readers recall that I still have resisted the temptations of the mobile phone. I now have to find my friends in this line that wiggles all around a courtyard. I look for a while and mostly give up. I head for the back of the line. The sky is pale blue and the air is crisp. The sun is shining and I'm surrounded by I'd say at least 1,000 Sufjan fans. The line isn't moving, except to continue to grow longer. The doors don't open for another hour. Friendly conversations abound. Discussions of our chances are the frequent topic along with laments of our lack of commitment to not have joined the campers who set up shop and spent the night. We consider various line-cutting methods and also express our appreciation for the overall neatness of this crowd. We begin to accept our fate as ticketless, but cling to enough hope that we don't leave the line. One of my fellow late-line joiners allows me use of his phone. I call and get no answer. I decide that if I hold up my disc, perhaps my friends will see it and come get me. I hold it up, occasionally waving it around until my arms tire. It's dubbed my bat signal, but it seems to have failed.

Tents are quickly put away and the long line begins to move. One exuberant usher takes the place of metal poles and velvet ropes by excitedly keeping the line tight, trying to wake us up and to keep us moving in the right direction. He does his job well, though the rumblings at the beginning of the line take nearly 10 minutes to reach us in the back. I make another failed phone call and spend much longer with my disc waving in the air. I look like a Disc Hall of Fame tour guide without any tourists. I get quizzical looks and then finally someone in another wiggle of the line asks, "What's with the Frisbee?"
I explain the missing friends and the bat signal and he says, "Oh." I take that to mean that there is some sense in my actions. This provides much less relief than I would have hoped. My phone-loaner decides that he's had enough and wishes us well. He sees no hope here.

The line moves on. We've moved through the first set of wiggles and into the second set. Someone starts handing out blue slips of paper. One of my line buddies, says "It probably says 'There's no chance in hell you'll get tickets.'" We receive our blue slips and realize that the Kennedy Center doesn't use the word hell, but instead uses words like sufficient. As in "a sufficient number of people are ahead of you..." My line buddy loudly announces, "It does say 'there's no chance in hell!'" Someone else exclaims, "It's like a pink slip, in blue." We all stand quietly contemplating. Still, no one moves to leave. I bail before the others around me. I've really lacked commitment in this whole process.

I'm wandering past the corner of the Kennedy Center trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my day, when some guy out of line hollers to those in line, "What time did you get here?" The guy in line answers, "about 5." Grunts from out of the line again reinforce the lack of commitment that I feel. I admire those with such commitment and realize that my friends who arrived at 5:30 are probably not too far behind. I decide I'll wait at the corner where the line snakes into the home stretch and try to find them. I don't wait long and I sidle up and exchange hellos.

As we entered the home stretch, I don't know whether the burning eyes from those behind us were in my imagination or not, but I began to feel warmer and not in a good way. As all these new found friends chatted along, I grew silent as we got ever closer to the doors. If I got tickets and the person behind me did not, I would have to give them away. I wondered if I should even be in the line at all. I started to think that I should leave the line. I wondered how many tickets after mine they would have to give away before I would feel ok about cutting. I tried to convince myself that this moment was one of those advantages that fell under the heading "knowing the right people." Still, I did not feel good. A loud voice rang out possibly shouting "No more tickets." The line rumbled and then rumbled again as "false alarm" was announced. We kept moving and my guilt kept growing. I hadn't said a word or looked at anyone in several minutes. How would I feel if someone had cut this late in the game? Would it have been different if I had found my friends at 8 AM when the line still wasn't moving? Maybe, but I hadn't. Was this how I wanted to live my life? Was this who I wanted to be? The line seemed to be inching along now. I think people could almost taste the tickets, although I'm sure they tasted like any common cardboard. My inner debate raged on and then the real announcement came. "No more tickets. We gave away the last tickets." This was repeated by several ushers with varying degrees of harshness and understanding.

I felt for those around me, but I breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd, quite disappointed, dissapated. At least partly.

Perhaps line forming is addictive, because we went inside and joined a few other Sufjan rejects along with a completely different demographic to wait another hour for Alvin Ailey tickets. This would be our lovely parting gift.

An attempt to improve song lyrics by sheer force of ego

"Fill these spaces up with Daves" - Azure Ray
"The David sleeps alone tonight" -Postal Service
"Everyone knows I'm in
over my Dave
over my Dave" -Fray
"Tonight we're the Dave and the rhythm" -Iron & Wine
"If I fall you're going down with Dave" -Dixie Chicks
"A long time ago, we used to be Dave" -Dandy Warhols
"Slicing up eyeballs, I want you to know" -Pixies (Turns out that one doesn't need me.)
"Steady as Dave Goes"-The Raconteurs
"There Dave goes. There Dave goes again. Racing through my brain" -Sixpence None the Richer
"I'm thinking about my Davebell, when you gonna ring it? When you gonna ring it?" -The White Stripes
"Baby you're all that I want. When you're lying here in my arms. I find it hard to believe. We're on Dave's blog.

We're on Dave's blog! baum baum batam" -DJ Sammy & Yanou featuring Do "...It isn't too hard to see we're on Dave's blog. OHHO!"

CAPITAL LETTERS DO IT BIGGER

IN EVERY BLOGGER'S LIFE THERE COMES A TIME WHEN HE/SHE/IT MUST LOOK INSIDE HIMSELF/HERSELF/ITSELF AND ASK "HAVE I SAID ALL THERE IS TO SAY?" THIS QUESTION IS OFTEN FOLLOWED BY THE DEEPER AND SLIGHTLY MORE INTROSPECTIVE, "CAN THERE REALLY BE LIMITS TO MY VANITY?"

FOR SOME OF US, THESE QUESTIONS GET POSED ON A DAILY BASIS. ME, I RAN OUT OF STUFF TO SAY IN 2004. NOW I JUST REMINISCE ABOUT THOSE DAYS. SOMETIMES I DO IT IN CAPITAL LETTERS, BECAUSE AS WE ALL KNOW CAPITAL LETTERS ARE THE WRITTEN EQUIVALENT OF SHOUTING. AND NOTHING SAYS WORTHWHILE COMMUNICATION LIKE SHOUTING. ASK ANY GOD-FEARING END-OF-THE-WORLD SIDEWALK PROPHESIER, SHOUTING IS THE ONLY WAY TO REACH PEOPLE. SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS. SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS HAVE CARRIED THE MESSAGES THAT REALLY MATTER, "THE END IS NEAR" "GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK" "THE END IS NEAR BECAUSE GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK"

MAYBE FILL-IN THE BLANK DOESN'T LIKE GOD THAT MUCH AND FOR THAT MATTER WHEN IS NEAR? NOBODY (20/20 AND MR. STOSSEL I'M LOOKING AT YOUS) EVER LOOKS AT THE PROPAGANDA MACHINE THAT PRODUCES SANDWICH BOARDS. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME WE SAW A GOOD EXPOSE ON A SIDEWALK PROPHET? HAVE THEY MOVED TO THE INTERNET? GIVEN UP ENTIRELY? GONE STRAIGHT TO XM SATELLITE RADIO? IT'S ABOUT TIME WE HEAR ABOUT IT. AND ALSO TIME TO GIVE THE OL' CAPS LOCK KEY A WHACK. That's better.

Shouting, like blogging loses it's appeal if we are allowed to go on too long. At least that's what I HEAR, when I still can.

Confessions of a Wizards fan

I moved here during Jordan's reign. That's Michael Jordan for those under 5 and those with a propensity to ignore everything advertising and basketball related since oh, say 1990. By the time Jordan became a Wizard, I think Jordan was more of a witness-the-flashes-and-remember-the-greatness kind of basketball player. I say "I think" for two reasons. 1. I didn't actually witness the flashes because tickets were sold out and I never developed a love for Jordan, respect eventually, but never love. 2. The team continued to not do much. Even as a casual observer I could see that the Wizards were bottom-dwellers and except for the ignored soccer team the whole professional DC sports world seemed to live in a bit of a losing streak.

Part management, Jordan left on not very good terms and his legacy was a first round draft pick out of high school, a center named Kwame Brown. Perhaps a legacy that Jordan didn't want since Kwame Brown was DC sports. I don't know the man. I'm not a basketball scout, but everything I read painted him as lazy I-made-it-this-far-so-I-must-be-special non-producing DC sports dud. Harsh? Exhibit A: Jaromir Jagr? Right? Exhibit B: Shawn Springs, Redskins fans? Exhibit C: The new face of MLS, Adu? Yes. It's a familiar tune around here.

In 2004, I started following the Wizards just a little bit. A guard named Arenas, a guard named Hughes, and a forward named Jamison were making some noise and drowning out the whiny notes sung by Brown. While putting up gaudy point numbers they were nicknamed "The Big Three" and took the Wizards to the playoffs for the first time since, well, they stopped being Bullets and started being Wizards.

Before the start of last season, the Wizards unloaded Brown and picked up Caron Butler and Chucky Atkins. I was relieved to get rid of Brown and I barely cared for the Wizards. I can't imagine what the real fans felt. Heck, I just wanted local sportswriter Michael Wilbon to have something else to write about. Unfortunately, one third of that big three, Larry Hughes also left the Wizards. Sports fan purgatory, two steps forward and two steps back...

Or was it? Turns out this Caron Butler fellow had a little fire in him. Caron filled Hughes' shoes and a new "Big Three" was born. This trio of Arenas, Butler, and Jamison were the highest scoring trio in the league and the Wizards again made an appearance in the playoffs. I had an early preview of the postseason matchup and I found out in person that this team belonged to Gilbert Arenas. He commanded the floor and his teammates with confidence. I watched as he and the Wizards defeated Lebron James, the so-called heir-apparent to Jordan and one of the most graceful players I have ever seen, and the Cleveland Cavaliers. I was probably already hooked before I spent 50 smackers on a ticket, but after seeing the Wizards beat the Cavs it was really over. The Wizards and Cavaliers met again in the first round of the playoffs. The series went six games, and although defense isn't the Wizards strong suit, they made quite a show of it, especially on LeBron in the early stages.

I also learned a bit about the quirks of one Gilbert Arenas. Turns out the man has a chip on his shoulder. I have a soft spot for a player with a chip, even if he has to manufacture it. He felt he was snubbed in the All-Star voting, so he vowed to pick up his play and I think he did. Same story with Team USA over the summer. It's not just the chip though, I don't really know the stories well, but I get the feeling that Arenas is odd. He sometimes goes by "Agent Zero," I've heard he says "Hibachi" when he shoots (cause his shot is on fire), and he once took a shower at half-time with his uniform still on. Hey. Whatever works.

The Wizards made a few more moves this off-season, but brought back most of the core from last year, including the new big three. This year, I can't stay away. The Wizards have been a little streaky, but they've also been awesome. Gilbert and the big three are putting up monster numbers, Caron has scored in double digits in every game. The whole team is diving after loose balls and knocking down big teams. It's been fun. Arenas has hit some ridiculous shots, even Kobe Bryant said he had "no conscience". Kobe Bryant said that? Not even Carlos Mencia could have come up with that zinger... Agent Zero put up 60 points that night. He's hit several game winners with defenders right in his face. Then, when I was watching the other night with the clock winding down, the Knicks double-teamed Gilbert so he couldn't beat them. Gilbert passed to Jamison, Jamison made a move and passed to Stevenson. Stevenson looked to shoot and then passed to Caron who slammed home the victory.

I don't think I've been more excited about professional sports since George Brett hit .390 (What?! I was two!). This team has got some swagger. They look like they're having fun and like each other. The arena changed names from MCI to Verizon, so maybe it has something to do with cell phone reception, because my peripheral knowledge of the hockey team says they're alive and kicking too and they play in the same joint.

This isn't Washington sports. This is cool.

The little pills...

It is uncanny how much of my pain occurs in the month before my pain reliever expires. Hardly touch the stuff for years and then as that expiration date looms BAM! pain city and I'm the mayor, or at least a non-voting council member.

Hippies, use front entrance

Yesterday, I had my first zipcar experience. Zipcar is a form of car sharing, but it is not like slugging. I wasn't on the side of the road hitching from designated slots, nor did I have any direct contact with other humans as a result of my sharing. No. My arrangements were all made online without talking to a soul. There are rules, but they are less about direct human interaction. It wasn't slugging, and it wasn't hitchhiking.

I did a little hitchhiking a few years ago. It was something that I needed to do. I know the world is a big scary place, but sometimes it's not. I admit I wasn't hitching across the country or even particularly far down the road, but I was on my way and my thumb was my ticket there. That ride wasn't exhilarating. A non-descript station wagon and a couple that seemed nice enough picked me up. They looked like maybe they made their own clothes or sometimes ate cold beans from a tin can. They were nice. We didn't talk much.

It wasn't like that. It was more like being a valet and driving off in a really clean car and returning it before the owners came out of the casino. I never did that, but it was like that. Or like my hitchhiking experience if I replace the couple with nobody and replace the station wagon with a Scion.

Cars are located in designated spots around the city. I made a reservation for one nearby. I decided my adventure would last no more than 2.5 hours, at which time I would return the car to the same spot. The automated service confirmed my intentions and even emailed me a reminder message, so I wouldn't forget to drive.

I didn't forget and found a little silver Scion parked where it claimed to be. I pulled out my card and scanned the windshield. The car unlocked and I climbed in. I fiddled with the XM radio and adjusted the seat. Within minutes, I didn't feel much. I was driving. Driving was a lot like I remembered. I've kept my mind sharp over the last two weeks, but it turns out driving hasn't changed all that much, even in a shared car. Traffic does not disappear. The street lights don't all turn green. I actually found the car sharing to be a less mind-altering experience than using an in-car navigation system. I was still driving, most of the dials were in the same place, and so were the pedals. For the most part there were a few knuckleheads on the road and as always an astounding number of people. Although, there were advertisements all over the car, I saw no indication that anyone cared. As best I could tell, everyone remained as self-absorbed as they had before. Including me.

My trip was not eventful, which is really how it should be. I had moments when I worried that I'd forget what kind of car I was driving, but that's not really a fear relegated to car sharers. I experienced a sadness when my radio stations were not preset and I couldn't even remember what station I used to listen to. The dismount wasn't perfect. There's something very odd about driving half a mile to park the car. The half mile walk back home was not trouble, but it's quite different from just shutting all the car doors or closing up the garage. As I trotted home, pride washed over me, because I knew that at that very moment someone else could be picking up the car to make a trip of their own. Even though I spoke with no one it made me feel a little closer to the city to know that we're driving the same car.

Global warming, Martin Luther King conspire to kill boy

Temperatures bordering on hot combined with three day weekends have led one young man to overdose on "Winter" Ultimate. Weathermen had promised rain and expected respite, but weathermen SUCK! I can't believe that's even a profession. It's got to be the easiest job ever. You don't ever have to be right. Without rain, I had no choice but to go out and enjoy the global warmed winter before hot becomes way too hot. Every time this body thought it was about to stop and rest, maybe even return to the office and sit still, it ended up out and chasing after another disc. Today, it even unsuspectingly walked into sprinting drills.

My body is the only thing ready for this weekend to end.

Cuteness Level = Orange
This has got to be worth 2,000 words. Easy.

Song

Why do you love songs that sound like they should be filled with verbs and gerunds?
Pianos and violins and voices all chiming in a rising, falling din.
Din, din, din, din, din, dinning
Trains coming coming coming coming coming coming coming.
Alarms ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing.
flowing by in an undercurrent of sadness.
ringing ringing ringing coming coming coming ringing floating
drifting drifting drifting drifting drifting so... far... away...
Bum ba bum
Dinning, din din din din dinner
Dining and whining and the slow dance of four left feet.
Twirl slowly, awkwardly, wistfully; adverbs dragging a scratchy voice through singing.
Punctuated by a crescendo of hope or pain. The same? Hope or pain. Hope or pain.
Emotion rising and falling and falling and falling and fading
to silence.

The pink-coated clouds of yet another dawn

He’s at it again. The changing. Every time I turn around something is different. After 4 years of something, I start to expect it’s going to be the same. The same! Unchanging. Consistent. When a man finds a groove... his groove... the groove... certain expectations abound. They abounded here. And now the very branches of my foundation are shaking. The tree is crumbling.
It started in his room. Or maybe that office. It started somewhere and it grew. It grew like the hair on his head, only faster and darker like the hair on his chin.

Next thing I knew change seemed to be the order of the day. Where were the signs I asked him. Where?

Signs? he mouthed.

“SIGNS!” I screamed. “All the important things are on signs,” I said with a red face.

He nodded knowingly and then said, “Signs are out. The Internet is in.”

Falling to the floor and curling up in a fetal position, I spewed air from inside. Deflated and alone, I whispered, “I don’t think I’m ready.”

He patted my head affectionately, stroked his straggly beard and said, “No one ever is.”

My fellow bloggers,
Do you ever fear that if you don't write it down in this little box then it won't have counted? That it hasn't counted yet, until you've recounted it and at least one person has commented on it? Do you fear that? Or worse that if it doesn't end up here, you won't remember it? In seven days it will be gone because it will have left this very screen. In just three days it will take a full scroll to reach it. Why, the big things will have less impact on your existence than the minutiae you were willing to discuss. That's my new fear in this new year. I have inflated the importance of the minutiae to the point that it has started to block out the really important things. Actually, it's to the point where I begin to wonder what the important things are. Is it a story? an experience? a quirky little phrase that makes my English jiggle? I've lost my picture of the really important things. Or are the really important things in the minutiae? Is life an impressionist painting and every dot is important to the big fuzzy whole? I hope I'm not too busy blogging to figure it out. Maybe the key is just remembering to look at the big picture and trying to see a bit in all of those dots.

Right. Or maybe it's just chattering on to anyone willing to listen... making the same dots over and over and over again like any common crazy.

Wheels of fortune

I knew there would be challenges. I just didn't think they would come so quickly.

Way back in November, one Mr. Briguy posted about An Inconvenient Truth. He said "see this movie" and he said it in all caps. I know Briguy, and he doesn't raise his letters unless he really means it. And don't even get me started on the extra-emphasis-inducing punctuation. He ended his post with one of my favorite quotes, "You must be the change you want to see in the world."

I am susceptible to suggestion, I admit it. And so I could have rushed out to rent An Inconvenient Truth, but this was more than a nudge toward Hollywood Video. This was a push down the path of putting down Lucille. She served me well, the old girl. Without the fullness of my convinctions, I could only manage to reveal bits and pieces of my struggle. I knew what was right, but there's so much of America wrapped up in car ownership. It's freedom, it's power, it's status, and in so many places it's a way of life. The only way out. The only way in. The only way to the store and school and anywhere. But this is not one of those places. I have an opportunity to be the change I want to see in the world and I am taking it.

It took most of December to find a satisfactory way to let go of the little red Saturn that took me on dates, took me to the middles of nowheres to play Ultimate, took me back and forth on the highway and brought me here. She wasn't well, but she wasn't dead. Earlier this week, they took Lucille away.

Everyday when I come home and turn the corner to walk down my drive I am a little startled to find her gone. I never drove her to the store, but my walk to the store somehow seems longer.

I was not completely unprepared for her disappearance. I orchestrated it, of course. I also signed up for zipcar almost a month ago. Their quick and easy rentals at locations all around should ease my struggle. As I rang in the new year, I hit the bike shops and soon bought myself a new bike, something that I can bounce off the curbs a little harder and turn to the trails with less fear of a flat tire. Bikes are good.

How good? Today was my first real test. Today I had to take public transportation and the new bike to my Sunday pick-up game. This is one of the two places I drive, now drove, on a regular basis. The Metro was farther away than I anticipated, partly due to a cruel joke- a sprawling parking lot. I made it to the game before it started and quickly forgot how I had arrived. I forgot until the darkness and the rain began to fall together. Wet and cold I made the journey home. What used to take 15 minutes now takes an hour.

I eventually watched An Inconvenient Truth and I'd like to echo Briguy and say, see this movie. There are those that don't agree with the conclusions and those that criticize the simplicity of the science. Maybe Al's wrong and maybe we'll be fine. If we're not, I'll be wondering if I could have done more. I think my grandkids might wonder the same thing.

The room is not enough

As my first act of the 2-Bond year I was allowed to watch Rudy in realer-than-real, widescreen, high-def magical Spectra-Vision. "You're five foot nothin', one hundred and nothin', and you have barely a speck of athletic ability. And you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for two years. And you're gonna walk outta here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. Am I making myself clear?"

That inspiration, that tenacity is going to carry me through the year, but the transition from six to seven is nothing more than a calendar page flop. Therplunk. New Year. It's not a new piece of clay. It's not a blank canvas. It comes with everything that was there yesterday.

Let's turn to the real live metaphor. I rearranged my room, but I still own everything* that was there before my desk turned to the east. I still have to find somewhere to put all this stuff. I still have to find some way to tame my laundry. These are manageable pieces of the metaphor, but they don't go down with a turn of a desk and they don't go down with the flop of a calendar.


*I have T-shirts older than high school kids and I can't part with them, but things are going to change. Watch carefully. It's glacial.

Irrelevant and irreverent

There are those in certain circles who might equate these two words. I'm not going to name names, but recent conversations have led me to believe that I have strayed from the latter and toward the former. After serious consideration, I have decided to blame others. I'm a self-absorbed sort as we all tend to be, but I've noticed a rather sharp decrease in others' interest in me. I've done a quick check and I seem to be in full fascinating function, so I'm clearly not to blame. Admittedly, there is a staleness creeping around the edges of my being, but it's nothing that a little spit-shine, a glance at my pumice-hard abs, and the end of that ream of a John Irving yarn A Prayer for Owen Meany. Oh my OWEN MEANY, is the runt ever going to die and fulfill his purpose? I HAVE A LIFE TO LEAD here Meany and you're pulling me down like concrete flip-flops.

It occurs to me, that some of my irrelevance may be overstated due to the approaching end of the year. The end of the year, like the end of the night creeps up quietly and then in a deafening roar pierces me with my own uselessness. It begs me to complete something, anything, to give my night and my year value. Please, please, Mr. David stop wasting time on the Internets and save yourself from drowning in information of questionable value.

But voice, but night, but life, Katherine Heigel has a movie called Knocked Up in production for 2007 and the Roomba was introduced in 2002. Also "marshmallowy delicious" has been replaced by "That's me Lucky Charms" and I'll remember almost none of this tomorrow. Irrelevance? I think...perhaps...not.... Maybe?

Merry and bright

Television as Time Machine

I saw this amazing Digital short on Saturday Night Live tonight. It was called "Lazy Sunday." Hilarious. My favorite line was about Hamilton and Aaron Burr. My sense is that this is going to be big. If only there were some way to share the clip with the world. Some way to communicate with other Internet junkies through images. (SIGH.) I suppose I'll just have to settle for words...

Me in the mags

Not only am I on the cover of Time magazine (you are too, really...), but U.S. News and World Report is prepared to give me a laundry list of New Year's resolutions, including at least one that I've already made.

I made the cover of Time and I thought 2006 wasn't quite up to snuff. Watch out 2007.

Hi Kate or I'm breaking the unspoken and oft-broken rule of blogging about blogging

The glove was thrown down in Texas, where warm weather allows that to happen with more frequency. Despite our planet's impending doom, (I watched an Inconvenient Truth and now live by the code- WWAGD? what would Al Gore do?)I decided to take up the gauntlet in Maryland. There's nothing like a long-distance secondhand challenge to inspire a chap.

I sit here, typing like I typed in the days of yore, when ye olde blog was new and fresh and exciting. I search the deep dark caverns of my mind for something of value (5 cents!) to say. Sometimes a little something spills out, other times I consider myself lucky that I'm not trying to sell blog posts on eBay.

I don't know if I can keep the pace of this December after a rather weak year, but I will try. Like the critics of global warming, I will submit that posting is cyclical; the only evidence I have is the post totals in December for my history.
2002- 26 posts
2003- 35 posts
2004- 20 posts
2005- 15 posts
2006 (through today)- 12 posts

Word counts are not available, but I've got to think the 12 posts of 2006 are nearly equal to or above the previous years. Five years of having very little to say has certainly increased my skill at saying nothing with more.

With that said, let me just say, nothing else.

The kind of man I am; item 243

After walking an extra few blocks to get on the Metro, I sat down and rested my head against the window. That's when I heard the announcement that said my train was delayed. Not in the mood to ride out the delay, I got up, walked back to within a block of where I started, took a different train, and made my home some 25 minutes later than expected. This detour cost at least an additional $1.35. None of that mattered though, because what I lost in time and money I made up in moving. I'm like water and delays are like my dam. Or maybe I'm a marble and Metro is my marbleworks. Either way, I can't avoid the funnel and gravity, so there I go...

Or so I've heard

The man who sleeps with dirty laundry is odd.
The man who sleeps with clean laundry is odd with bleach.

Dear Santa

Here's a list of things I no longer need thanks to global warming:
*ice picks
*skates
*really thick sweaters
*hot chocolate
*skis


Here's a list of things I need more than ever because of global warming.
*Margarita glasses and tiny umbrellas
*suntan lotion
*lemonade
*sandals
*beach towels
*waders
*chiles

Please adjust your list accordingly. I have been mostly nice, with some naughty streaks mixed in this year.

Thank you and Merry Christmas.

Sincerely,
David

P.S. Are you concerned about global warming? Is it cutting into your real estate?

Jingle babes

Dashing through 55 degrees of pre-winter hinterland, the horses of a Lexus as black as the night was making spirits bright while I rested with pies and a pillow at my side. Arriving in the land of fighting blue hens, we pulled into another suburbia. From Virginia to Delaware all of suburbia looks the same. Yards are groomed, lights are up in force, and people are gathering for food and wine and either creme brulee or rainbow-colored fish depending on particular tastes.

This house was filled with reluctant singers, but host and honoray co-host had the chops big enough for all of us to follow. They were Jersey-sized entertainers in a Delaware package. The songs were a mix of Christmas and childhood fare. The thrill of a party with a sing-along is the window for socializing is reduced and the door for singing is flung wide open. When meeting strangers in that neighbor to the north, this combination suits some of us quite well. The night wore on and the singing more flamboyant greased by the rainbow-colored fish and the red and white wine. This was my first sing-along, but many regulars waltzed in and out of the house. Good King Wencelas was unable to make an appearance, but Hairbrush song was quite a crowd-pleaser.

The night wound down by 10:30 and the children were put to bed. There were hints that these sing-alongs used to go much longer. Also hints that Hairbrush song was a fairly new addition.

Babies change the world, laughing all the way...
What fun it is to ride and sing, in Delaware at night...

A magical tale of unrealized pancakes
inspired by Abba's comment

The tale has been told many times before. It’s as old as a fourth-grader by now.
Inside a rail-thin man, there lived a little boy. Behind his spotty beard, his
eyes glistened with the anticipation of late December snow. The rail-thin man
with the boy inside grabbed his bag and his plan to dispense good cheer. He
went by Tim 364 other days, but on this day he was known only as Santa Tim.
Santa Tim gathered up good cheer and set about dispensing it.

Good cheer comes in many shapes and sizes. For some folks good cheer pours from
translucent bottles and tingles when it goes down. Good cheer can be served hot
or cold. It can come powdered, in pieces or slices; good cheer has been known to
break the mold. Some people hear it and others can smell it. Some people hug it,
sing it, dab it, kiss it, and then some people forget to bring it. But good
cheer has mathematical powers. It can multiply and get all exponential. Even
divided up it has unlimited potential. Good cheer is as magical as it sounds,
the problem see, is that sometimes people forget just where to find it,
especially in unfamiliar places.

Santa Tim had no such problem. He knew just where to find it. Many places sell
it, but Santa Tim chose the dollar store or some such entity. With the
jolliness usually reserved for much plumper men, Santa Tim filled his sack with
goodies. Toothbrush holders, candle holders, imitation Pez dispensers, soap
dishes, romance novels with half-eaten covers, egg holders, and small pillows
with inappropriate sayings joined kitchen utensils as just a few of the
contents of Santa Tim’s big bag of good cheer. With red hat and white pom-pon
atop his head and bag slung over his shoulder, he and his elf John made the
rounds through the halls, dispensing cheap trinkets like they were frankincense
and myrrh. This dispensing brought great joy to many overgrown children
masquerading as adults. Squeals of delight, pats on the back, why it was almost
as if all the Who’s in Whoville danced in the bellies of the residents.

One boy in particular was overjoyed by his bounty of good cheer. He introduced
himself as David, but all the other children called him Dave. Dave was a lucky
one. Blessed with good looks and remarkable curly locks, he had Austin
Power-esque charm (women wanted him and men wanted to be him). Yet, he was very
humble and remains so to this day, despite his maniacal discourse on subsequent
days regarding kitchen utensils…

Santa Tim was nearing the bottom of his bag and so he offered Dave a choice.
Black plastic spatula or box of multi-colored toothpicks? There was guilt in
Santa Tim’s offer. His guilt had no place here. These were not the dregs of his
goody bag. Certainly not. Fate had brought these items to David. These items
were perfect expressions of all the goodness in Santa Tim’s heart. Dave
recognized it immediately, although he’d never be able to put it into words.
Exactly.

Considering for only a moment, Dave reached out and accepted the black spatula.
It was plastic. It was black. The nearest kitchen was at least two floors away
and locked half the time. Dave wouldn’t make pancakes for years, yet the
spatula was perfect. It was a bat, a racket, a sword, a missile. It was a baby
doll, a loyal pet, a back scratcher, a robotic arm.

Years later, the black spatula rests between the wall and the desk in David’s
home. It’s fallen from its makeshift paperclip hanger and Dave did not take
notice. For all its uses and all the joy it brought, the black spatula now
serves up reminders. Piping hot, fresh, reminders of good cheer.

Why used dessert forks would make a great gift

Come on, used dessert forks would make a primo gift. Let me list just a few of the reasons why:

- Used dessert forks are smaller than regular forks, therefore they are cuter. Used dessert forks are the Mini of the utensil world. The slightly smaller tines alone must be worth 250 cute points.

-Small not only equals cute, but it also means accessible. Dessert forks are great for pickle jars, and uh, dessert. So there's that.

-The batteries may not be included, but stick a dessert fork in an outlet and like grease lightning, "It's electrifying."

I know that so far I have only scraped the tip of the double chocolate cake surface of the advantages of the used dessert fork, and I really haven't focused on the "used" part of things. Fear not, for I saved the greatest argument for last.

-Two words: Leftover icing. Try to get that with Tickle me Elmo.

If you can read this, your Internet is too close

As I peeled the remains of an "I'd rather be playing Ultimate" bumper sticker off my bumper, I wondered if drivers with "Honk for Jesus" stickers went through a similar range of emotions when they picked and poked at the remains of their stickers. As the tiny sticker flakes stopped peeling off in my hand, I thought about the time in Columbus when I lived by my bumper sticker. I found a place where there was too much Ultimate or at least not enough else. I'd rather be playing Ultimate, it turns out, really only works when there's actually something else to be done.

As I scraped at the sticker with a screwdriver, I was reminded of how much Ultimate has meant to me. I get confused when my weekends are without it. Nearly all my friends who don't share some connection to Mizzou are Ultimate players. Ultimate is the reason I wake up Sunday afternoon and the reason I limp to work Monday morning. I run because I like it, but I run more because it will keep me in shape for chasing discs. There's something to this Ultimate thing.

Finally, as I turned to the razor blade and I scraped away the last of "playing," I worried that maybe I'd let Ultimate become too important. Bumper sticker removal and tears don't go together. With a flick of the blade, I erased Ultimate from Lucille. She shuddered as she remembered trips to Lawrence and through Slippery Rock. Discs pulled from her trunk in places as far apart as here and Hays. "Too important?" Lucille's freshly cleaned maroon body asked. Then quietly she directed me to her gold racing stripes. I saw in the stripes what she wanted me to see. Lucille is a fine car without those stripes, but that flair makes her special.

Honk for that.

The boys who say "Wii"

The Wii fairy paid a visit to me this evening. And I've got to say now, I'm all hopped up on Wii. It may not have been the most amazing video game performance of my life, but it was certainly one of the more active. I was particularly fond of boxing and tennis, particularly frustrated by golf and bowling, and alternately satisfied and dissatisfied by baseball. I cannot decide whether I need to buy this latest Nintendo, but if anyone asks why this system has such a ridiculous name, I surmise that it relates to the sound that everyone will make while playing. Wii!

Keep an eye on this Japanese contraption, it has the potential to be a cultural phenomenon not unlike iPod. You heard it here 242nd.

Mice. Men. Best laid plans and stuff

If I-70 is open, then it should be on.

This was the thinking, if we can be so bold as to call it that. MODOT said it was so, and we were off. Cruising down the highway in 22-degree weather that felt like 18, we did not roll down the windows or let icicles roil through our beards. Instead, we rode out of KC with the rising sun and set our course for C-town. On schedule, we arrived at the promised icy patches of Boonville and continued to avoid death. The goal of all driving is to avoid death, just as the goal of all insurance is to avoid paying. Like flood insurance in Arizona, we were successful. There were some nervous moments, like the time when I crushed the flowers my prom date had just pinned on my lapel; there were nervous moments on the road too, like the time a large truck forced me to drive over an icy patch shaped like an 8-bit Abe Lincoln, but we survived. My traveling partner napped through most of this, but he'?ll vouch for our survival if asked.

We arrived in Columbia at 10 AM for our cancelled 10 AM tournament because we had been told there would be hat tournament action. As I came cruising down the hill toward the field, I announced that the drive would probably not be plowed and I should probably seek alternative parking. Then seeing tire tracks on the drive, my optimism got the best of me. Left turn, fifty feet through the sixteen inches of snow and then I could go no more. Forward or backward it turned out. My co-pilot checked for Ultimate players and found none. I yellowed some snow and considered the best way to dig myself out and/or bury the bums not playing. After an hour of forward and backward progress, the rear end of my parent?s' car hung out into traffic. We were still stuck. Furiously digging beneath the car while trying to keep one eye on the road just to see what kind of vehicle skidding down the road might crush us, we worked. Taking another stab at an exit from our snowy parking spot halfway on the road, a car stopped to wave us out. They didn'?t seem to understand that we needed more than hand gestures to get free of the snow that bound us. Or maybe they did understand, because as soon as they opened their doors to come give us a push, the car freed itself from the spot, and we were off.

Finding 4 other hearty souls, all of whom had walked to the alternate fields, we engaged in 3 on 3 Ultimate. Ultimate of this variety haunts me on Stankowski field. Yes, there were many games and many nights where I played full robust games on the turf, but there were also many days and nights of disappointment when the field couldn'?t attract enough players to play. This was not quite one of those times. For the next three hours, we goofed around in the snow. We found that in 16 inches of snow, a person can dive, catch a disc, and then land face first in the snow and be completely covered. We took great joy in whitening our beards, and flopping to the whitened world below us. Joy times at least 50. Some of that was in the bounds of a game with scores, but most of that was just purely throw and catch. It was a goof for sure, but quite an enjoyable one.

And so, as our fingers got cold and our stomachs started to ache from so many landings, hunger set in and we made our way to BoocheÂ?s for burgers. I know now that I didn't consume nearly enough Booche's in college. I attempt to attone for this on every subsequent visit. I introduced two new souls to the burgers. One fell in love with the reuben sandwich too, but the one in Columbia, the one likely to tell her friends- she dug the burger. She also laughed at me for the way I savored them.

Savor I did. After traveling a thousand miles to goof off in the snow, nothing could have tasted better than that sweet delicious $2.50 cheeseburger.

The bad news of a cancelled tournament may have hit me with a shot of mint in the Detroit airport, but snowy Ultimate and burgers reminded me that mice and men don't always know what's best anyway.

24 goes wedding

The commercials have told me that all of TV-land will soon be a-buzzin' about a show called Big Day. On this show, we'll see a wedding day dissected into tiny, and undoubtedly laugh-track-worthy, bits. I expect charming arguments, family tension, and if we're really lucky a tears-of-joy ending. I can't wait. To change the channel. Before I do, I was struck by a little something in the premise of this show.

One day. One season.

Recall with me, if you would, a little show on another network called 24. That action-packed show puts us in the fray as our real American hero wrangles with terrorists in one crazy day of his own.

One day. Wedding. One Day. Terrorism.

I'm not watching either show, but I thought I'd allow others to draw the wedding/terrorism parallels with me. I'm fun like that.

Disappointment with a shot of mint

I didn't realize how excited I was until I stepped into the airport. I was going to Kansas City. There was a winter storm sweeping the midwest. There was Ultimate to be played and old friends to see.

I knew there was a chance that Ultimate would get cancelled, but I never believed it would happen. Ultimate players are too hardy and I was on a 4-day vacation. The flight to Detroit was filled with turbulence. I had to grab on to my seat to make sure I didn't fly out at one point. I stayed seated, survived a landing, and waited for my connection to KC.

Sippping my mint-laced-coffee-drink and eating gingerbread in the airport, the phone rang. My travel partner and I exchanged nervous glances. He answered and his face fell. "16 inches?" he asked. "The roads are closed?"

And so, we suddenly found ourselves on the way to KC without a tournament to play. It was hard to believe as we cruised through blue sky. Then as we neared Missouri, we noticed white below us. The state was covered in snow. At least to a point. As we got closer to the airport, we realized that we were flying just along the edge of the storm. Out to our left, the ground was covered in snow. Out to our right, the ground was covered in ground. It was odd. We were flying the line between snow and no snow. And snow was in the south. That line was also the line between disppointment and activities as planned. Somehow the visual representation made the cancellation sting just a little more.

There's a chance that if the roads open, we'll still see some Ultimate action. In the meantime, I'm left with the puzzling challenge of showing off KC.

The biggest test in 16 years

Age: 16
Goal: 70% and the freedom to wake up in the middle of the night and drive to McDonald's.

The parallel parking did not go as smoothly as hoped. Chalk it up to nerves. Stopped on a large hill, the instructor informed the young driver that those with manual transmissions deserved an extra level of scrutiny, not extra credit as he had hoped. Stopped at a stoplight, a wee bit too close to the car in front. Marked for various other infractions Returned to the DMV, nervously.

Grade: 70%. Passing is passing. Freedom in the eyes of the law. Restrictions in the eyes of the parental units.

"Well I'm not bragging babe, so don't put me down"

A pink learners permit folded and crumpled at the edges sits between 15-year old boy and his parent as they wait together at the bottom of the hill in suburbia. The boy sits on the left, his hands are tightly gripping the steering wheel. With his left foot jammed on the clutch and his right poised to dart between gas and brake, he nervously prepares another go. Slowly letting out the clutch, he slams his foot on the gas and the engine revs its disapproval. Startled, the boy pulls his feet off the pedals and the car lurches to a stop again. After the neck bouncing ceases, a discussion of feathering the clutch, of feeling for that point when the depressed pedal is ready to pounce and unleash a life of cruising for Big Macs and open road, occurs. The left foot raises slowly and the right foot does not jam on the gas, it depresses the pedal inversely of the right and the car rolls to life. It sounds simple enough, though the boy doesn't really know anyone else going through this ordeal. Automatic transmissions, the go-karts of the adult world are what his friends ride. The boy does not have that option. It's either manual in the little red Saturn or the mini-van. If he can just get this now, freedom awaits. Freedom to avoid steep hills, especially at the light on Troost where he imagines the cars lined up behind him and honking as he struggles to find that point on the clutch under pressure, but freedom all the same. This will not be the last day of practice, but the neck snapping, car lurching cannot go on forever.

The ups and downs of my existence

A little piece of the dream cracked today. You may have won the battle, Friend, but I'm resilient. I'm like silly-putty and I am a b*tch to get out of your hair.

That was the down, the up was Stranger than Fiction. It was everything I wanted my movie-going experience to be. I'm calling this the performance of Ferrell's career. Take that Ron Burgundy.

Is it just me or is this mock turtleneck getting awfully tight?

I'm letting my world shrink. Ultimate. Work. TV. Intergalatic planetary space travel. Repeat. There must be more...

Every so often I stumble across some details that I truly appreciate about people in the general sense, even though my stumblings are about a person in the specific sense. Today those details are:

1. A man who likes to read in the outdoors. He takes his books on a walk, finds a spot, and reads. Between paragraphs and deep thoughts, he picks up flowers or leaves or blades of grass and toys with them as he returns to his reading. Twirling, pulling, caressing the pieces of nature, he eventually grows tired of the words and the greenery and folds the latter into the former until eventually all of the books in his library have the pressed remains of outside.

2. A woman who recalls with pride that she was the tallest girl in middle school. Everyone around looks down and laughs at her 5-foot 3-inch frame. Height can be relative. Pride can too.

Fighting uselessness with futility

I felt useless all day long today. My brain then determined the best way to combat this feeling was to escape into the world of Tony Hawk Project 8, aka the gazillionth in a series of addictive video game skating games. Thanks, brain. Nothing makes me feel more useless than the never ending list of challenges with the three-tiered judging and the impossible trick combinations. Why, now I'm so useless that the garbage takes me out.

We're a very cute couple. And completely useless.

The turning point

There's a moment in sports movies where momentum shifts, fortunes change, and underdogs begin their final push to shocking victory. Yesterday, I thought I was in that moment. Facing the perennial local league champs, my scrappy team was tied at 3 all. We were playing well, but it seemed like we didn't believe it could last. They were so tall, so fast, could jump so high, and throw so well. I broke deep, running toward the end zone with my defender on my heels. A big huck went up seemingly out of reach. I raced after it and then left my feet in pursuit of the soaring disc. Laying out, I stretched out my left hand because I needed every extra inch. The disc hit my hand and stuck and moments later I slammed into the ground. My hand gripped the disc and I raised it slightly above my head to signal that I had held on to make the score 4 to 3. For the first time in a long time, it felt like we could win. We seemed to match this team in skill. The other team was fighting for every point and we were fighting back.

Unfortunately, they struck back and took half 8-6. From there, we could never close the gap and they went on to win 14-11. I saw, and I hope my teammates saw that winning is possible. Perhaps we'll meet this team again in the championship game. Maybe that was the turning point and this is one of those really long sports movies with lots of false climaxes.

Voting on the run

I have a long-sleeve white T-shirt that says, "Runners. Yea, we're different."

I like that shirt. It says a lot about who I think I am. I ran to the polls yesterday. I stretched while I waited in line. I cast my vote that mattered a very very very little and then I ran out of there and on for another 3 miles. While I was running through the mist and past the lined up cars waiting to lurch through another traffic light, I started to think about my sixth favorite topic of late. (1. Ultimate 2. Hotdish 3. Offices 4. Hot drinks 5. black licorice) That's right, I was thinking about planned communities. What the world needs now is love sweet love, but also we need communities that allow and encourage people to walk places. Communities with sidewalks and public transportation instead of suburban sprawl would be very good for people that can no longer drive and people that don't exercise and pretty good for the rest of us. If walking to the store was part of the culture, if not always hopping in a car and spewing exhaust into the air wasn't part of our daily routine, if polling places, haircutteries, restaurants were near by, imagine how wonderful life could be in terms of exercise (and stress relief), air quality, and general neighborliness.

That's my life and I approve of this message.

Verrrry interesting

Emergency Preparedness Day at work coincides with the elections.

('Cause they want us to be ready for the outcome.)
(And the ensuing black out.)
(And panic.)
(Don't worry. We'll be trained.)
(And so will our newly elected officials)
(They will protect us)
(as usual?)

Move along. Nothing to see here.

Remember Halloween...that was wicked







A younger, smaller me once said, "Give me a box and I can be anything." So much wisdom and considerable thrift in someone without all of his permanent teeth. That quote was probably in the year of the aluminum-foil robot costume, or the spray-painted green dryer get-up. It may have been the year of the third-tallest hat in the world complete with King Kong action figure hanging from the radio tower, not a Halloween costume granted, but still an impressive box-making feat. I know it wasn't the year of the punk rock ghost or the regrettable decision to be a cross country runner when I was in fact a cross country runner. Of course, there were no boxes involved during the cross-dressing years.

Halloween is a challenge that I particularly enjoy. Unfortunately, when my creativity gets going it often outstrips my building abilities, even in the box construction area. There was an ent a few years ago that looked a bit like I tripped and fell into our recycle bin. Sometimes both my construction abilities and my creativity fail me at the same time. I'm wondering if that was the case last year, since I only recall wearing my cowboy shirt to work and no other costume.

In the year 2006, the story is very different from just a year ago. Saturday night I attended a party as a Frosted Mini-wheat. I make a fine breakfast cereal if I do say so myself. I don't have pictures that I feel like sharing, mostly because I think there need to be a few benefits related to seeing me in person. A Frosted Mini-wheat me just moved to the top of that list right past watching me raise my eyebrows at salacious stories. I am, however, willing to share my work costume. I would've been a Mini-wheat at work, but that get-up didn't allow sitting, so I racked my brain and finally settled on clever over construction. I know clever is in the eye of the beholder, but I taped two dimes to my chest and proudly asked my coworkers, "Do you like my costume?" They looked at me strangely while I pointed to my chest. "Does it help if I shift?" Every time, it did not. And then, fully anticipating the eye rolls I received, I announced, "I'm a Paradigm Shift."

I think some of my coworkers have stopped talking to me.

There's a tic in frantic

I wrote a note at work today. Somehow it seemed easier to just rip off a sheet of lined paper, scrawl some words and addresses on it, and sign my name. The signing gave me pause. There's no automatic signature on the pages torn from a notebook. After struggling through the closing, I felt refreshed. This was the pace of work at one time. The pace of writing. The pace of mailing. The pace of waiting. I had a coworker who used to talk about the days before computers. It wasn't all typewriters and carbon paper. She said mail would come in daily some time near 11 AM. The mail would get opened, sorted, letters would get answered and sent back out into the world. Sometimes in a day. Sometimes not. They didn't follow up on the same issue three times in an hour. They were buried in paper, sure, and they had occasion to use a tickler which makes me giggle a little bit, but work was different. For five minutes, I felt that today. It relaxed me. We go so fast. We get things done; it's true. Some of them get done multiple times. We are doing more than ever before. And that's what matters... That's what matters....

Checked into the boards by Mr. Universe

I'm not sure about heaven, but Oklahoma...

Not how I wanted to start. Sorry.

Let me start again. There's a beauty in the universe and I suspect it's hanging around everyday. It's like beauty smog and it just sort of infiltrates everything around us. We breathe it in and stare it down and sound waves ride gondolas steered by able-bodied smog Venetians through it on the way to our ear canals. Most of us get caught up in too much other stuff to notice the fog of the smog of beauty flatulence. It takes an elbow to the throat to jolt us into noticing. I've had great fortune this week to take at least three elbows to the throat.

Elbow the first: I know that babies have a high cuteness quotient, but so few of them run with my crowd so I don't usually realize the depths of that power. Last week, I met Anya for the first time. It was a pleasure. She was fascinating. She'd move her hands while dreaming and the room full of people who had not stopped staring at her would collectively smile as if we were her puppets and she controlled our mouth muscles on strings. I was not immune to her power. It was a calming sensation and it put my whole week into perspective. The false complications, the various manufactured stresses- what is all of that compared to a tiny baby? Nothing. Each of us was once that small and that helpless. Each of us started out only wanting to eat, sleep, poop, or some combination of the three. We only pretend we have passed that stage.

Ulna the second: My iPod mini is full of music. Some of it makes me want to shake my tailfeathers. Some of it makes me want to grab my banjo and slow dance with it. There's music that makes me smile, makes me rock, makes me appropriately sad, fired up, or makes me want to break out my falsetto. There is one band though that reaches down inside of me, plucks out my soul, and serves it with cream of mushroom soup as part of the growing-in-popularity hotdish. That band is Hem. This weekend I got to sit in the front row while they served my soul as a delicious meal. Somewhere in the last few years I lost track of how much meaningful music they have put out. I delighted in nearly every song as they carried me through love, loss, and that place of peace that I can only recognize when I hear it in my innards.

Codo de tercero: High on a hill in grassy field in Virginia, framed by the Autumn colors of reds, yellows, and greens, chilled slightly by October air, a group gathered to play a game that has come to mean so much to me. That game- Ultimate. My mistress, my salvation, my social network, my release, my happiness. My first game of the season. I twisted my "good" ankle just before we began to play. With my bad ankle and my quadriceps already causing concern, I feared that I was done, but the switch clicked when the game began and the pain vacated. White plastic cut through chilled air and I gave chase. We carved tracks back and forth across the grass and let youth, joy, and beauty run into the indentations our pounding cleats left. The indentations overflowed and so we leapt into the air, diving, bounding, jumping, and hollering to pursue it all. Beads of sweat formed, deer appeared to watch this display of natural beauty as the disc spun on sometimes just out of reach. Bodies extended to fly through the air, feet darted, sometimes slipping, but panting and smiling we soared to meet the high of activity.

Excuse me, did you say Hot Dish?

I don't remember how the topic came up, and I refuse to admit that I might have been swapping recipes. Nonetheless, there was a "hot dish" (apparently that's Minnesotan for "casserole") that sounded pretty delicious and pretty easy in this conversation, which may or may not have extended beyond hot dishes. Anyway, I came home, whipped it up, slathered it with ketchup, and put it in my tummy for the last two nights. It's so good I wrote all three ingredients down on a recipe card and wrote "Hot Dish" at the top so that my grandchildren can some day enjoy a hot dish of their own.

Hamburger (or soy crumble)
Cream of Mushroom soup
Topped with Tater tots
Cooked for 45 minutes

Hot Dish. It's almost as fun to eat as it is to say.

The Garter family

It never feels right trying to catch a garter from a barely-known groom. It always feels like there should be some bond between this groom and the "next one." At least that's my excuse for only coming up with one garter in seven tries this year. Those in attendance might call in to question the word "tries" for several reasons. At least two of the weddings decided to forgo the dive beneath the bride's dress, so they were out. I caught the one. I don't remember how two others went down, which leaves us with just two.

In the first, my young cousin took one for the team with a stunning diving grab. I was quite proud of him for his catching ability as well as his generosity in taking the heat off those of us that have actually reached marrying age. Good man. Good show.

The second of the uncaught garters came much much closer. The garter whizzed out to my left and above my shoulder. It was catchable; I should know, I like to catch whizzing things for fun, however, it didn't seem right to steal the moment from the gentleman to my left who was not only in the direct line of flight, but was also about a head taller than me. Quickly considering these factors, it only seemed fair to let him have the prize. He must have been considering a different set of factors because he politely stepped out of the way to allow the garter to fall to the floor. Like befuddled baseball players, we looked at each other disappointedly before recovering our dignity. "Dear sir. I believe that was yours. Please do pick it up now," we both said. This back and forth went on for an awkward stretch before a young lad saved us from further discussion and plucked the garter from the ground. This seemed like an excellent compromise to all parties involved.

The wedding wave crashes

I thought that I'd feel a bit more jubilant now that I have my weekends wrestled back from the marriage monster. I closed out Wedding Wave 2006 with my seventh and final wedding over the weekend. My suit will head to the dry cleaners. My tuxedo will head to the tailor. (There was a crotch-ripping incident. It was a good year....) It's odd, not knowing what's next. I can only wonder when I'll be able to vogue again. I don't know whose Mom will be the next Mom I get to hug or whose Dad I'll get to struggle through a conversation with. It could be six or eight months before I see another bridesmaid. I may be calling my friends to give toasts during my meals, just to ease me back into the weddingless existence. I thought I'd be happy right now, but I'm a little lonely. It seems that... uh... there ain't no party like a 19,000 dollar party, 'cause a 19,000 dollar party don't stop. Say what? er. They do stop. And people sort of stumble off the dance floor, hug, kiss, and wish the sharp dressed man and that happy woman an enjoyable visit to somewhere romantic. The rest of us return to our lives already in progress. Maybe we caught up with some old friends, but by Tuesday four days will be just like four years. Maybe we made some new friends, but by Wednesday who knows when we'll see them again. At least we've got pictures, and also CDs, coasters, coffee, small bags of edible goodies, and our memories. Someone will drink to that. They always do.

Ways to look a gift horse in the mouth without sustaining serious injury

-Sneak up on the horse while she is sleeping.

-Stand perpendicular to the horse and use peripheral vision.

-Two words: Magna Fication

-Translated as one word: Binoculars

-Become a gift horse dentist, then it will be an occupation and OSHA will print guidelines for the bulletin board which will be oh so helpful.

-Wait until the gift horse is dead.

Or follow the advice passed down by generations of folks wiser than Salman Rushdie and don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Plant it on my cheek

Zach Braff is all the rage. Or at least he was like 10 minutes ago. I don't know why anymore. I saw Last Kiss and I'm depressed. It's a sad movie about how life sucks. I don't like to go to movies to find out life sucks. I go other places for that; country music stations for instance. I go to movies to escape, not to be reminded that at the end of this whole show we're all just going to end up dead anyway. I mean according to this flick, life is pretty much over at 29. Come on Braff, not all of us get to mambo with Rachel Bilson. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure that it adds rather than detracts from my ill feelings toward Last Kiss. The movie isn't dark and meaningful. They curse a lot, so it sounds dark, but it doesn't do it for me. It has some good music, but I wonder if it has the same problem that Garden State had. In that one, I found the soundtrack more moving than the movie. I can't confirm this on the Kiss yet, 'cause I haven't heard the soundtrack separately. It's just a theory at this point. Rachel Bilson had a really short pleated skirt. This factoid also seemed worth mentioning, though unconnected to much. Although in this case the pleats improved my opinion of this movie. In fairness to the folks that like men, Braff took off his shirt. This neither added nor detracted from my experience. Overall, I have to say that I wasn't pleased with the first movie I've seen in a theater since California*. Save your money.


*I'm looking into new ways to mark time. I have not ruled out states.

A Public Service Announcement for my New York readers Or is it reader, now?

The baring of one's teenage soul seems like loads of fun. Or at least worth a cringe.

Let me know if you end up on TV.

The ballad of disease

Here's the profanity-laced follow-up to my first *hit* single, The stability song. This one was inspired by a heart patient with pneumonia. I figure it has to brighten her mood just knowing that I won't be singing this to her.


Just because it's still dark
Doesn't make it night
Just ‘cause they removed the fat
Doesn’t make it lite.
She’s out of bed,
But fighting a foe.
You can call him Murdoch,
But I’ll call him Moe.

He’s pneumonia
A mean ol’ lung infection
He's pneumonia
Nobody’s candidate for re-election

He’s banned from the A-team
And cut from JV
If he were walking
I'd kick his knee
That surly bastard
Attacking the impaired
Come on, Moe, bring it.
Are you scared?

He's pneumonia
Doesn't rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.

The immune system sounds the bell
does its Truman
And gives him hell
Pneumonia goes down
With a right to the jaw
The crowd cheers wildly
And sings this song

He's pneumonia
Doesn’t rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.

Immune system dances
Cha-cha in the street
Pneumonia shrinks away
He's been beat.

Just because it’s pink
Doesn’t make it dusk
Just because it's perfume
Doesn't make it musk
She's out of bed
And besting her foe
This song should've ended
A long time ago

Pneumonia!
Bloody hell.
Pneumonia.
Go on, get well.

Here's a quote

From Eugene Mcarthy, "You have to be smart enough to understand the game and dumb enough to think it's important."

Pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?

The Juan Valdez where everyone thinks they know your name

There is a Juan Valdez coffee shop on the corner of 6th and Fun Street. It opened six months ago. Across the street is a Starbucks. The green wheel of coffee shop dominance spins in at least three Fun Street locales. Juan had to know this when he opened his shop. Still, he pulled his red awnings down and opened his sterile white walls to the world. Lines snake out the door of the Starbucks. There are no lines at Juan's. For a time, Juan didn't seem to have niche. Then, one day, looking in the window below an awning I saw someone I knew perched at a table. It wasn't just someone I knew, it was my friend Amy from elementary school. I did a double take and she was gone. A blonde girl with remotely similar features stared past me. Turning the corner, I looked in another window and saw Mike. I haven't seen Mike since I left Winter Park four years ago. I squinted and Mike morphed into an unknown scruffy coffee drinker.

Wondering who I'd see on the inside, I took my seat at the window and chewed on a Juan Valdez tuna salad sandwich. There's a reason Juan is not known for his tuna. I was reading the paper as I munched, when an attractive woman burst through the door, turned the corner, and cried out "Nick..." and then trailed off into, "Oh. I thought you were someone else."

These events have lead me to believe that Juan Valdez was not so foolish as to challenge Starbucks. I believe Juan Valdez is not on the corner of 6th and Fun. Instead, he's set up shop smack dab in the intersection of reminiscence and familiar faces.

I think I was blind before I went to your wedding*

The Internets are already burning up with tales of the Voltron-like union of Kristin and Justin, but in an attempt to make up for my dismal blogging September I thought I would add my own account.

I admit to wondering how a wedding in a high school auditorium was not going to feel a bit too much like "awards night." I stopped wondering when I heard the rumor that Chuck had designed a set. I've seen the man's entertainment center, I knew he was capable of class. So I took to wondering what sort of song and dance number we'd get to see. Kristin and Justin did not can-can, but they put on quite a show. The stage was set simply and beautifully. The programs on notepaper were perfect. Every detail from the hot pink ties to the music had Kristin and Justin's personality in it. Lucky for all of us, they each have fantastic personalities. My favorite ceremony moment was hearing excerpts from their personal letters. Both are such wonderful writers with such distinct voices, to hear those voices wrapped up in a growing love was a special treat. Arguably a better treat than the the 1 million different varieties of cake offered at the reception. Although, in fairness, the Butter Pecan did rock my world. Do you know what else rocked my world? Paul. He was a beautiful dance partner. The most beautiful dance partner I had all night besides Julie, Anne, Kristin, that one girl, J-dub, and of course, Clare. Beautiful in his own way. And, a genius. Paul came up with the routine that would carry us to third place in the dance contest. Jumping jacks are sweeping the countryside like giant electric brooms. You'll see.

The thing about this wedding and the thing that I'm not sure I can really put into words is the love. There is joy in seeing two great people come together and it helps so much when you know each one is great. What makes it even better is getting to witness such an event surrounded by bunches of other great people. It doesn't hurt at all when those bunches can cut a freakin' rug.

I'm glad I didn't die before I got to party.

*With all due respect to Bright Eyes and the song that I've listened to 8 times today and sung constantly since leaving the Midwest.

The stability song

I've decided to write a song. I'm not so much with the music or the lyrics, but I'll italicize the words and make odd line breaks and everyone perusing the Internets like child molesters that thought they missed me this month can remember that they didn't. That same everyone can also be insulted that I just compared them to child molesters. Then they can wonder why good-looking singer-songwriters are such jerks. Then the ones that are singer-songwriters can be upset that I insulted them too. Oh. Man. The child molesting singer-songwriters are going to be furious. Maybe they quit reading in early September. Please don't tell them. I hope they don't have an RSS feed.


This is a song about being stable.
I didn't write it. I wasn't able.
This is my song about stability
Sitting here in all my futility
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working haaaaard

This is a song about being still
I wouldn't sing it. I'm not Phil.
This is a song about not moving.
Broken down and not grooving.
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working harrrrrd.

Traveling the countryside
In my gas-guzzlin' ride.
I'd rather take the train.
I'd rather it not rain.
I'd rather you silence that phone.
I just don't want to hear it.
I'm busy working hard.

Why-oh-why
does your ringing,
sound three point five times better than my singing?

I'm not classically trained,
I'm not filled with pain.
I'm not having fun.
But
I'm
Working
Hard.

Pink Perfection at the "Sugar Shack"

The sun was painting the sky in a daily farewell. Pink lemonade strips were woven between fluffy white cumulus clouds. A rain was coming, but only one. Followed by another. Rain, like underwear, is puzzled by its number. Unlike underwear, rain is not nearly so puzzled when it comes to gender. American rain lacks an obvious gender, but French rain is female. The buttons on her shirt are on the left, for the rain-servants. French rain can wear short skirts and get away with it. When French rain gets asked out for coffee, the thunder almost always picks up the check. This makes American rain exceedingly jealous because American rain has to pay for its own coffee. Plus American rain is tired of Pat jokes. What's that? It's American rain.

At night, after the sun has set and the little ones are asleep, sometimes American rain cries itself to sleep. It's very hard to tell because tear drops on rain drops can be a subtle phenomena only detectable by trained eyes. Although, there was a man with no eyes at all who could hear the tears. They drove him mad and he invented a shampoo for children and sensitive adults, but his brother... His brother Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack next to the home of American rain. Johnson didn't have the incredible ears of his brother Johnson, but since people often confused the two of them anyway, this story has shifted in his general direction.

Now, Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack. That sounds sweeter and/or dirtier than it was. He worked part time as a painter and the other time he spent thinking of ways to get out of working altogether. In a fit of inspiration, Johnson painted his modest meadow dwelling to look like a spun sugar egg. There are those that claim he had a Gretel fetish, but the most commonly held theory is that the younger Johnson decided that he could charge tourists to gawk at his shack. It was not altogether a bad plan, especially when one considers that the Precious Moments chapel attracts 400,000 visitors a year.



(The answers to your questions are yes, I'm reading Tom Robbins again and Pink Perfection and "Sugar Shack" were my dinner. The former was a smoothie, the latter a platter with baked beans, crepes, eggs, and Black Forest ham.)

I got Lost in the fictional town of Neptune

DVDs and cliffhangers are a bit like Oreos and freedom. With only work, pauses for meals, and the jaunts to the bathroom to slow me down, I have made my desperate grasps for closure and in trusty television fashion I have been left wanting. They can take the commercials out of the TV, but they can't take the consumer off the couch. With the ads gone, my desires are more uncertain. I don't know whether I want Budweiser or Kellogg's Corn Flakes, but I know that I want. Somewhere deep inside of me, I want. I hunger. I thirst. If not glued to my seat, I'd pull out the blender and mix everything I could find. Twizzlers, hummus, milk, and mystery. Is that a me-shaped mold on my couch? If I'd rotated couches, I could now make multi-colored plastic me's and sell them off to pay for other things I might crave.

I heard I might crave one of the new Apple gadgets. The nano comes in color now. Just what I need. The wee little shuffle is so small it can be swallowed and passed through the system. Eat it with fiber and it'll shuffle inside of you for a full battery cycle*. (*Not recommended or proven) I'd run out to buy one, but I'm not speaking with my iPod at the moment. We got in a tiff recently. My silver mini was blocking out the world all proper-like, spitting my music collection through the buds and directly into my brain. Swept up in a Funnel Cloud blowing down Metro's tracks in a crush of suburb-dwellers, my eyes passed over the weakened force. Silently I commiserated with the masses. Ties were loosened, bone-crushing heels clung to feet, eyes remained downturned. As my cloud paused and the doors that always seem to be closing hinted at opening, a woman waited next to me. She was leaving. I was staying. She was dressed in her conservative best. Her big black heels raised her golden hair slightly above my dumpy lid. She turned to me and I watched her lips move. Words, a sentence, spilled from the moist pinkness below the brown eyes tilted just slightly in my direction. She was speaking to me. In an instant I reviewed the rules of public transportation. No eating. No drinking. No music without headphones. No littering. Oh. Yea. And the unwritten rule, the genesis of the infamous Metro stare, the rule that says nobody ever talks to anybody, especially not the smelly bearded men, a party with whom I was currently registered.

The woman was talking to me. Having reviewed the rules in my head, I also did a short equation. Attractive + woman + stranger + Metro = Avert eyes! Avoid the burning of human connection! I ignored my calculation as she had ignored hers and ripped a bud from my ear.

"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Nothing," she muttered as she walked out the doors.
"Please stand clear, the doors are closing," said the only other woman that ever talks to me on the Metro.

Buds?! What kind of buds are these, Apple? The kind that shut out the secrets of the universe. The kind that prevent me from telling the Internets about the specifics of a failed pick-up attempt. These are not my buds. These are tiny white fists pummeling destiny. They are awkward little hands strangling fate. They are the miniature subwoofers adding pulsating depth to an otherwise ordinary moment.

My little weather

In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.

In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.

Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.

Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.

Unpaid advertisement

I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.

As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"

(And it's now or never...)

Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!

Memorandum
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance

Dear Mr. Daimon:

Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.

If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.

Thank you.

If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.

There's a black hole in Minnesota
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.

It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.

I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.

Oh you're not hardcore...

Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.

There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.

Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.

It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...

Oh the places...

The backpack is all stuffed with tent and clothing. I'm leaving on a jet plane knowing to the minute when I'll be back again, unless I get delayed by weather or maintenance or some unforeseen circumstances. I'm looking for a few of those starting after noon- weather, maintenance, and unforeseen circumstances. In the mornings though, all foreseen circumstances, please. After lunch, it's time to start wandering in my rented carriage. Chauffeur and passenger all rolled into one, I'll be a human Cordon Bleu and adventure will be my cheese. I have direction, as that seems to be my hot pants of late, but the plan is only loosely defined. I've packed freedom, of course, and underwear. I trust both will be clean and still fit tomorrow. There are certain things I need to take care of and certain things I have to admit to myself. I'll pay my respects to a dear friend by spending some time with the fishes. I may admit that the allure of the big city is less my style than the drive away from it. Or I may find the opposite- that the big city is an enormous powerful magnet and I am but a slender paperclip powerless against her pull. How quickly will I discover that my travels are much less profound and so much more Pictionary? Person. Place. Thing. Object. Action. Difficult. All play.

110, 99, 131

A. The number of calories in each of my bites of ice cream. Ah, a delicious treat.
B. The bowling scores from another tough Monday at work. Ah, a delicious feat.
C. The number of ways three chefs can think to prepare beef. Ah, a delicious meat.
D. None of the above.

K through 21

Hairy-chested kindergarteners have nothing on me. I skipped the trip to the babysitters, haven't had to color inside the lines in more than a month, and had a beer with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn't as delicious as I'd hoped, but then memorizing my phone number has not proven to be as valuable as "they" claimed it would be. Like chasing the girls at recess, I have found this day to be an excellent stress release. I'd climbed a few too many jungle gyms, piled on a few too many Mother's Day outs sans mom, and just plumb had my fill of Legos and Lincoln Logs. To negate that overburdened feeling, I've filled my day with idle TV-watching, like Saturday morning cartoons only on Sunday and with Gilmores on DVD. Every day cannot be filled with activity. Sometimes we just have to take a moment to buy more Johnson and Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo, even if we're too much of a big boy to need it. Or we have to remember to use the kickstand on the shiny blue bike with the banana seat instead of always flinging it into the grass. Or we have to come home when the street lights turn on. And no it doesn't matter if one of them is out and never comes on, it's still time to come home. And yes, have a drink before bed, but just one, and that's it.

What you get is not what you want and what you want is not what you get

In a clearing between the deep green of conifers, two enormous log bridges floated in the air above the smoothest pond I've never seen. It was calm, serene, beautiful. One end of each log was sliced perfectly. The other ends were too far away to see. As if in a helicopter, I hovered into this serene clearing. There was a mack line of disc players on one of the logs. That should provide some picture of the scale. They played comfortably; the fear of falling wasn't a factor. I landed on the other log, not landed really, but appeared. I had the urge to cross the log, to reach the other side I couldn't see. I started to walk and then I lost my balance. I was clinging to the underside of this enormous log when I lost my grip. Suddenly I found myself a lot higher above the water than I'd realized. I was higher up and I was falling. It happened very quickly. I plummeted toward the sheet of pond and then with a splash I woke up.

Saturday afternoon at the quote factory

It's a gradual descent into a life I never meant... R. Kiley

In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line. T. Robbins

You said you provided your guests with a welcome basket of eyeballs. All I found in my room was a trash vase filled with old tragedies. You also claimed to offer free overnight humping in your garage. Not true, Fella. M. Libs

My broken Landis

Dear Floyd,

You have hurt me. I watched the Tour this year with more delight and more fervor than ever before. I watched and cheered for you in a boyish way, in a way I have not cheered for a stranger since I was a boy myself. You see, long ago, baseball burned me. They broke my heart and I still haven't forgiven them. I stopped cheering after those baseballers struck. I stopped tuning in on my transistor radio. I stopped being glued to television screens. I found out that there was very little power and very little satisfaction in pouring my heart out in hopes that my little hollers could somehow affect the universe enough to force in one more run, or basket, or field goal of professionals. Professionals were people doing a job. Some focused on the money. Some got caught up in drugs. Either way, it didn't take long to find a more appreciative audience. I found my teammates. They don't get paid and ideally they don't cheat.

Every so often, I dabble in fanaticism again. I start to believe. I start to think that I can be more, I can be great, because I get to witness greatness on that 20 inch box. Then you come along. I devoured your amazing story. The difficulties you have overcome. Your dedication. Your gritty determination. And I watch. I watch hours of men pedaling through France.

Floyd. Some places torture war criminals by making them watch men pedal through France. But I watched on the edge of my failing couch. I tried to will you to success. I believed in you. And you did not let me down. You delivered a stirring victory. An epic story. One for the ages. It seemed glorious. Instead, it teeters on tragic. Whether you're innocent or not, and oh, I cling to the hope that you are, the victory is tainted. I'm shaken. You didn't deny it like an innocent man. But how? How could you be that stupid? Or if this is some vast conspiracy... It's too much. I can't go on. One parting shot- suddenly Zidane, the man who lost his temper in a heated battle looks like a hero. Assuming he wasn't on drugs, at least he was competing on an even playing field. Is that really too much to ask of professional athletes?

I don't have tears to cry. Please make it go away.

-Dave

New age

I think I accidentally grew up in the last week. One minute I was carefree and unmotivated, then I spun around three times and poof I'm working late and fixing my resume and having actual ambitions. It's like I've aged 5 years since last Tuesday. Or maybe it's just the weight of my friggin' moustache.

OH, THE LAYERS OF MEANING

In the dumpster of life, the Happy Meal (registered Trademark) and the empty carton for a six pack of bottled beer look eerily similar.