Free haircuts are priceless
Whenever I cut my hair, I think about my grandpa. It’s probably because we have the same haircut, his a leftover buzz cut from WWII, mine a lazy buzz reaction to balding and high priced hair cutteries.
Today my hair past the comfortable buzz length into that silly stage. Grandpa’s used to do the same thing. I remember his big smile under that funny German nose, little patches of hair sticking up, accentuated by the hair that wasn’t there.
When I was quite a bit younger, one of our favorite games was “Trap me, Grandpa.” He’d sit in his La-Z-boy pretending to read, or just smiling mischeviously, and I’d crawl up to the edge of his chair with a sly grin of my own. I’d stare at him while he pretended to be interested in the newspaper and then suddenly SNAP his legs would close around me and I’d be trapped. I’d struggle to break free, grabbing at his shoes or his ankles until he released his grip just slightly. I’d see my opening and break for it, when SNAP his legs would come back together and we’d go through the whole struggle again. As soon as I did manage to get free, or looking back, probably as soon as he let me get free, I’d crawl back to the edge of the chair with that sly grin and say, “Trap me”.
Sometimes he would, but other times he’d just say “Settle down”, or he’d make me go wash up for dinner. Grandpa and the bathroom we washed up in always smelled like a combination of three things: lawn mowers, Lava soap, and Listerine. Once I bought some black soap just to play a trick on him. He came in from working on the lawn mowers ready to wash up for lunch and my grandma said, “Try this new soap we got you,” with a wink in my direction. He took that black soap, the kind that turns your hands black, and he lathered away. He lathered and rinsed and lathered some more, but he didn’t notice the blackness a bit. His hands were already so covered in grease that even black soap was a step in the right direction. He probably would’ve washed all afternoon if we hadn’t told him the joke. It wasn’t much of a joke anyway. I can’t remember if he laughed, but I bet he smiled. He did that a lot.
I remember getting up early in the morning when I stayed over and he’d be drinking his coffee halfway through a crossword puzzle. He’d smile as he offered me breakfast and the sports section of the paper. It didn’t matter if I could read or not, he’d still offer.
He was a big baseball fan, and a Royals fan. He’s the reason I can never truly hate baseball even after the strikes, the steroids, the scandals break my heart, I’ll never forget my grandpa and the Royals. I’m sure I’d heard that he had played semi-pro, but all I really understood was that he loved the game and he knew it better than anyone in my world. When we’d go to the Royals games, he’d buy a scorecard and we’d keep score. He always knew what was going to happen next and as far as I can remember he was always right.
I played baseball for a little while and he was my biggest fan. I bet it saddened him when I tossed aside the mitt after just a few years. He never complained though. And he cheered just as hard when I ran in Cross Country meets.
At his funeral, that first week after my freshman year of college, a recorded trumpet played “Take me out to the ballgame”. It was as beautiful as it was sad. Those that spoke at his funeral said wonderful admirable things about this man and his life, about his spirtuality and his personality, and about baseball. So much of it I never knew. The bits that I did get- the smells, and the smiles, the baseball and the love; those things are with me forever.
You can’t get that with a $20 haircut.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Monday, March 22, 2004
Cursed block
I chase her through the lines.
She winks and blinks and
eludes.
The more I chase, the farther
she goes.
With no return,
she doesn't leave.
She doesn't enter
From beginning to end
she pauses and ponders,
always escaping
Down
Down
Down
she goes,
when she'll rest my mind knows, but on and on she seems to go to the end of the line then below.
The winking
The blinking
Eluding my strokes.
I chase her
like the crafty cursor
she invokes.
I chase her through the lines.
She winks and blinks and
eludes.
The more I chase, the farther
she goes.
With no return,
she doesn't leave.
She doesn't enter
From beginning to end
she pauses and ponders,
always escaping
Down
Down
Down
she goes,
when she'll rest my mind knows, but on and on she seems to go to the end of the line then below.
The winking
The blinking
Eluding my strokes.
I chase her
like the crafty cursor
she invokes.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
He's a man, baby
I do manly things. I (tried to) work on my bikes to get them suitable for riding. I dive around and fiercely compete for a (flat)ball. I burp out loud, (once and a while.) I don't put down the seat (all the time). I stare at women. I have been known to drink from the container (only to finish it). I walk around my house with my shirt off. I don't iron well, if at all. I eat SPAM. My hands aren't soft.
Now you're thinking, you didn't bring me here to list the "sort of" manly things you do. I'd like to point out that I didn't bring you here at all. You came of your own free will.
Then I'd admit, that you were right. I bought silk flowers today. I'm having a little trouble coping. I didn't set out to buy silk flowers. I was in search of elastic for my duct tape skirt. So you can see how the dramatic turn to silk flowers could embarrass me.
On a bookshelf in the carriage house we have a vase. It's a pale marbley vase. It's very nice. That vase has been empty since we moved in. I was at a certain arts and crafts store in search of elastic and they had tons of silk flowers. A good friend of mine had mentioned that we could put silk flowers in the vase when I mentioned that once and a while I considered buying flowers from the florist to put in the vase. I scoffed, a manly scoff at her suggestion. Tons of flowers, and I was starting to look at them because there was no elastic. No elastic?! I know; but tons of fake flowers. I didn't want anything too bright and springy, because it isn't my vase and its owner has certain tastes. Bright and springy, those tastes are not. I found some pale silk hydrangeas or something and I was feeling pretty good about it. I knew it wasn't enough. So I searched a little longer until I found a nice sprig?, twig?, something maroon and spiky to compliment it. And I bought them knowing they would look good in the vase.
When I got home, bruised and scratched from a manly game of Ultimate, I revealed the flowers to my unsuspecting roommate. Up to this point I was confident in my silk flower buying decision. It would be a nice decorative touch to put some silk flowers in that vase. I folded up the stems and placed the flowers in the vase. And they looked good. I dare say even "real good." And that's when I started to be embarrassed.
My room may smell like man, but outside my door there are silk flowers in a vase and I know they look real good.
In a few days I'll get over my embarrassment and it's quite likely that I'll do it without any tears. Because I'm a man, baby. Just barely.
I do manly things. I (tried to) work on my bikes to get them suitable for riding. I dive around and fiercely compete for a (flat)ball. I burp out loud, (once and a while.) I don't put down the seat (all the time). I stare at women. I have been known to drink from the container (only to finish it). I walk around my house with my shirt off. I don't iron well, if at all. I eat SPAM. My hands aren't soft.
Now you're thinking, you didn't bring me here to list the "sort of" manly things you do. I'd like to point out that I didn't bring you here at all. You came of your own free will.
Then I'd admit, that you were right. I bought silk flowers today. I'm having a little trouble coping. I didn't set out to buy silk flowers. I was in search of elastic for my duct tape skirt. So you can see how the dramatic turn to silk flowers could embarrass me.
On a bookshelf in the carriage house we have a vase. It's a pale marbley vase. It's very nice. That vase has been empty since we moved in. I was at a certain arts and crafts store in search of elastic and they had tons of silk flowers. A good friend of mine had mentioned that we could put silk flowers in the vase when I mentioned that once and a while I considered buying flowers from the florist to put in the vase. I scoffed, a manly scoff at her suggestion. Tons of flowers, and I was starting to look at them because there was no elastic. No elastic?! I know; but tons of fake flowers. I didn't want anything too bright and springy, because it isn't my vase and its owner has certain tastes. Bright and springy, those tastes are not. I found some pale silk hydrangeas or something and I was feeling pretty good about it. I knew it wasn't enough. So I searched a little longer until I found a nice sprig?, twig?, something maroon and spiky to compliment it. And I bought them knowing they would look good in the vase.
When I got home, bruised and scratched from a manly game of Ultimate, I revealed the flowers to my unsuspecting roommate. Up to this point I was confident in my silk flower buying decision. It would be a nice decorative touch to put some silk flowers in that vase. I folded up the stems and placed the flowers in the vase. And they looked good. I dare say even "real good." And that's when I started to be embarrassed.
My room may smell like man, but outside my door there are silk flowers in a vase and I know they look real good.
In a few days I'll get over my embarrassment and it's quite likely that I'll do it without any tears. Because I'm a man, baby. Just barely.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Even I don't want to do what I want to do
There are times when I complain, "Nobody wants to do what I want to do." While that might be true, I'm afraid that there are just as many times when I'm perfectly happy that nobody does want to do what I want to do. Somehow my ideas seem to collapse under their own weight. I'm struggling with why the source of an idea or a plan seems to have almost as much effect on me as the actual plan. I know I'm not alone in this. I've seen parties planned and then cancelled due to exigent circumstances that were neither exigent nor circumstances. I myself have responded to the same idea in exactly opposite ways.
An example: Person A says, "let's go paint pottery. Wouldn't that be fun?" I say, "no".
One week passes and Person B says, "let's go paint pottery for so and so's birthday." I say, "Ok. That sounds like fun."
Person A is understandably baffled by this behavior. So am I.
There are times when I complain, "Nobody wants to do what I want to do." While that might be true, I'm afraid that there are just as many times when I'm perfectly happy that nobody does want to do what I want to do. Somehow my ideas seem to collapse under their own weight. I'm struggling with why the source of an idea or a plan seems to have almost as much effect on me as the actual plan. I know I'm not alone in this. I've seen parties planned and then cancelled due to exigent circumstances that were neither exigent nor circumstances. I myself have responded to the same idea in exactly opposite ways.
An example: Person A says, "let's go paint pottery. Wouldn't that be fun?" I say, "no".
One week passes and Person B says, "let's go paint pottery for so and so's birthday." I say, "Ok. That sounds like fun."
Person A is understandably baffled by this behavior. So am I.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
From Eggers AHWOSG
"Are you sure you want to be telling me all this?"
...
"What am I giving you? I am giving you nothing. I am giving you things that God knows, everyone knows... I give you all these things...but you still know nothing. I tell you and it evaporates. I don't care- how could I care?"
From me BSWTFmate?
"You can't really know what I'm thinking because by the time I get it down on paper man, I've already moved on. So, like what you're reading is like so totally five minutes ago, man. You can't know me, because you can't keep up, man. I can't even keep up myself. 57 words per minute and still I can't keep up... I think we're all better off for it; man."
"Are you sure you want to be telling me all this?"
...
"What am I giving you? I am giving you nothing. I am giving you things that God knows, everyone knows... I give you all these things...but you still know nothing. I tell you and it evaporates. I don't care- how could I care?"
From me BSWTFmate?
"You can't really know what I'm thinking because by the time I get it down on paper man, I've already moved on. So, like what you're reading is like so totally five minutes ago, man. You can't know me, because you can't keep up, man. I can't even keep up myself. 57 words per minute and still I can't keep up... I think we're all better off for it; man."
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
The rest of the story
I'm without Sports Night because I finished it and because they didn't make any more. I think that Jeremy and Natalie ended up together. Natalie took on production of CSC when Dana left. Dana and Casey never ended up together but they remain good friends. Neither married. Both are happy. Dan and Rebecca got married, but Dan went mad and joined a cult. Their two children are coping. The cast and crew are good wholesome family people that deserve their own show, but won't ever get it. That is their lot in life. Dave and the CVS girl never saw each other again. The CVS girl used her new found confidence to drive Delaware men wild. Dave used his new found confidence to prepare to meet his challenge- get a date in '04. He also used his "CVS girl" story whenever talk got dull. Reuben learned to play an electric ukelele. His band will go on to make the hardest rockin' uke music of all time. That is his lot in life.
I'm without Sports Night because I finished it and because they didn't make any more. I think that Jeremy and Natalie ended up together. Natalie took on production of CSC when Dana left. Dana and Casey never ended up together but they remain good friends. Neither married. Both are happy. Dan and Rebecca got married, but Dan went mad and joined a cult. Their two children are coping. The cast and crew are good wholesome family people that deserve their own show, but won't ever get it. That is their lot in life. Dave and the CVS girl never saw each other again. The CVS girl used her new found confidence to drive Delaware men wild. Dave used his new found confidence to prepare to meet his challenge- get a date in '04. He also used his "CVS girl" story whenever talk got dull. Reuben learned to play an electric ukelele. His band will go on to make the hardest rockin' uke music of all time. That is his lot in life.
Stringing along
Remember love seasons? I'm afraid that I may have funny stringed instrument seasons.
Last year around this time I started craving a banjo for no apparent reason.
This year I'm starting to feel that same way about ukeleles.
I'm not sure there's room enough in my life for two stringed instruments. I don't even play the banjo that often. Although maybe Reuben would like one. It's funny just to picture it.
Remember love seasons? I'm afraid that I may have funny stringed instrument seasons.
Last year around this time I started craving a banjo for no apparent reason.
This year I'm starting to feel that same way about ukeleles.
I'm not sure there's room enough in my life for two stringed instruments. I don't even play the banjo that often. Although maybe Reuben would like one. It's funny just to picture it.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
What could be better than that?
Have you ever found yourself in that place? The one where you're thinking deep and philosophical thoughts like, "I wonder how Dave would spend 100 dollars at Borders on a rainy day in March."
Your deep philosophical inquiries can be quenched right HERE:
You are here by Wesley Gibson, The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield, The Best American Non required Reading short story collection, The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank, Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich, The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory, The latest issues of Bitch and Adbusters, and some groovy (or more appropriate 70's slang) stationery.
See Title
If Paul, a.k.a. P, a.k.a. P-diddy, a.k.a. DJ Usurp, would give me his address so I can send him his freakin' Valentine. I'm tired of having it on my desk.
See Title again
Pizza and Sports Night.
One more time
I got two of the coolest envelopes in the world today containing personal letters, and I got nothing from Citibank. AWESOME.
Have you ever found yourself in that place? The one where you're thinking deep and philosophical thoughts like, "I wonder how Dave would spend 100 dollars at Borders on a rainy day in March."
Your deep philosophical inquiries can be quenched right HERE:
You are here by Wesley Gibson, The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield, The Best American Non required Reading short story collection, The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank, Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich, The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory, The latest issues of Bitch and Adbusters, and some groovy (or more appropriate 70's slang) stationery.
See Title
If Paul, a.k.a. P, a.k.a. P-diddy, a.k.a. DJ Usurp, would give me his address so I can send him his freakin' Valentine. I'm tired of having it on my desk.
See Title again
Pizza and Sports Night.
One more time
I got two of the coolest envelopes in the world today containing personal letters, and I got nothing from Citibank. AWESOME.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Now that Martha is convicted
I think I'm going to make a duct tape skirt.
Don't give me that look, it's doable.
What I need is something for the waistband. I'm also concerned that it will be too heavy and won't move properly. It's got to be the kind of skirt that's good for diving. Maybe I should call Louis Vutton. Or does he just make handbags?
Why? I hear my mother asking. Because I'm playing on a team called "The Duct Tape Experience", that's why. Oh, and also because duct tape pants would look ridiculous and probably chafe.
I think I'm going to make a duct tape skirt.
Don't give me that look, it's doable.
What I need is something for the waistband. I'm also concerned that it will be too heavy and won't move properly. It's got to be the kind of skirt that's good for diving. Maybe I should call Louis Vutton. Or does he just make handbags?
Why? I hear my mother asking. Because I'm playing on a team called "The Duct Tape Experience", that's why. Oh, and also because duct tape pants would look ridiculous and probably chafe.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
The disc doesn't lie
They have names like Hump, Spanky, Saw, and Hash. To them, I'm D.A. or The Prostituter. If I met them at a party, I'd probably try to find my way to the other side of the room. They call women "bitches". They travel with beer and less legal drugs. They swear like sailors and talk about fecal matter the way my friends talk about words. They're disgusting, childish, and I like them.
I wouldn't want to spend all my time with them, but I spent the better part of two days with them and I enjoyed it, a lot.
Spanky, Saw, Hash, and the rest are Ultimate players. They can do things with the disc that are beautiful to watch. They can make it fly. And they can rip it out of the sky. They pour their guts out onto the field, even if their guts are filled with alcohol.
Inside those cones and occasionally outside as well, we have entered a brotherhood. We trust each other. We won't let the other down. I'll be there streaking down the field when Spanky wants to let one fly. If Saw overthrows me, I'll come back and fight for a "D", trying to force a turnover, so that the brotherhood can live on and Hump can take another shot at it. It's teamwork and it isn't really interested in personality.
I fear I'm giving the impression that this brotherhood has reprehensible brethren. Things are never that black and white. Many of them have charisma like you wouldn't believe. Stuck between the swear words and the fecal matter are truly nice guys. When the whole team became engaged in an argument over whether one member of the team could be half-pirate and half-Indian. Someone loudly asked "Are you born a pirate or do you become one?"
I laughed hard. And it wasn't the only time. I can't tell you why Ultimate players love "Your mom*" jokes, nor can I tell you why they are so funny. But say anything; say, "I like pickles" and an Ultimate player will likely tell you that "Your mom likes pickles."
Whether your mom likes pickles or not isn't the issue, the issue is team. Spend two days with people pouring your heart out in pursuit of the same goal and I think you'll form a bond as well. The bond won't die when the weekend ends. Bonds are stronger than that, even with people you aren't sure you like.
*Moms, it's a joke, please don't take it personally.
An emotional tale
First I have to mention that the team I played with was not a particularly emotional team on the field. A few plays warranted a holler, or a high-five, but very little could make the entire team erupt into a roar.
Second, I have to mention that at the start of each game the team captains will often "flip" to decide things like jersey color, starting side of the field, etc. The flip involves each captain taking a disc and flipping it into the air while a predetermined teammate says "same" or "different". Will the discs land both face up, or one face up and one face down? The correct answer gets to choose the things like jersey color, starting side, etc.
Third, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that at least some of the beer had been consumed on the sidelines by this point in the day.
Late in the day on Saturday, our captain was flipping near the bleachers the team was seated on. As the discs careened to the ground the entire team watched in silence for a rare moment. One disc landed face up, the other hit the ground and started to roll. It wiggled and wobbled and rolled along the ground and the team seemed to suck in their collective breath as we waited for it to fall. It fell face up, seeming to buck physics in the process and we leapt to our feet in triumph and erupted in cheers. We would continue to wear dark jerseys. It was our finest hour.
They have names like Hump, Spanky, Saw, and Hash. To them, I'm D.A. or The Prostituter. If I met them at a party, I'd probably try to find my way to the other side of the room. They call women "bitches". They travel with beer and less legal drugs. They swear like sailors and talk about fecal matter the way my friends talk about words. They're disgusting, childish, and I like them.
I wouldn't want to spend all my time with them, but I spent the better part of two days with them and I enjoyed it, a lot.
Spanky, Saw, Hash, and the rest are Ultimate players. They can do things with the disc that are beautiful to watch. They can make it fly. And they can rip it out of the sky. They pour their guts out onto the field, even if their guts are filled with alcohol.
Inside those cones and occasionally outside as well, we have entered a brotherhood. We trust each other. We won't let the other down. I'll be there streaking down the field when Spanky wants to let one fly. If Saw overthrows me, I'll come back and fight for a "D", trying to force a turnover, so that the brotherhood can live on and Hump can take another shot at it. It's teamwork and it isn't really interested in personality.
I fear I'm giving the impression that this brotherhood has reprehensible brethren. Things are never that black and white. Many of them have charisma like you wouldn't believe. Stuck between the swear words and the fecal matter are truly nice guys. When the whole team became engaged in an argument over whether one member of the team could be half-pirate and half-Indian. Someone loudly asked "Are you born a pirate or do you become one?"
I laughed hard. And it wasn't the only time. I can't tell you why Ultimate players love "Your mom*" jokes, nor can I tell you why they are so funny. But say anything; say, "I like pickles" and an Ultimate player will likely tell you that "Your mom likes pickles."
Whether your mom likes pickles or not isn't the issue, the issue is team. Spend two days with people pouring your heart out in pursuit of the same goal and I think you'll form a bond as well. The bond won't die when the weekend ends. Bonds are stronger than that, even with people you aren't sure you like.
*Moms, it's a joke, please don't take it personally.
An emotional tale
First I have to mention that the team I played with was not a particularly emotional team on the field. A few plays warranted a holler, or a high-five, but very little could make the entire team erupt into a roar.
Second, I have to mention that at the start of each game the team captains will often "flip" to decide things like jersey color, starting side of the field, etc. The flip involves each captain taking a disc and flipping it into the air while a predetermined teammate says "same" or "different". Will the discs land both face up, or one face up and one face down? The correct answer gets to choose the things like jersey color, starting side, etc.
Third, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that at least some of the beer had been consumed on the sidelines by this point in the day.
Late in the day on Saturday, our captain was flipping near the bleachers the team was seated on. As the discs careened to the ground the entire team watched in silence for a rare moment. One disc landed face up, the other hit the ground and started to roll. It wiggled and wobbled and rolled along the ground and the team seemed to suck in their collective breath as we waited for it to fall. It fell face up, seeming to buck physics in the process and we leapt to our feet in triumph and erupted in cheers. We would continue to wear dark jerseys. It was our finest hour.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
An interview with me
Interviewer (Q) will be played by one of my alter egos. I'll play me, or one of me, or something.
Hold on to your hats.
Q: By now all our readers know that you like at least 4 things: group dynamics, blogs, Ultimate, and women. What we want to know is what's your type?
Dave: Blood type?
Q: No. Women.
D: Oh. Right. I don't really have a type.
Q: Really? What about the short-haired cutie?
D: I like short-haired cute women, but I wouldn't really call that my (air quotes) type.
Q: We'll ignore the air quotes, and say what about Natalie from Sports Night?
D: She's cute and she has short hair, but I don't see your point.
Q: Would it be safe to say that the last two women you were enamored with for longer than a week were short-haired cuties?
D: I suppose they had short hair, and of course they were cute, quite lovely actually, but...
Q: And the girl in CVS? How long was her hair?
D: It was on the shorter side.
Q: Do you see a pattern?
D: Perhaps, I see your pattern, but a "type"?
Q: All right then. How about your favorite TV show in college?
D: Ed?
Q: Carol Vescey- short hair- you see where I'm going?
D: A little bit.
Q: Ok then. Reese Witherspoon. Explain that.
D: She's a good actress?
Q: SHORT-HAIRED CUTIE.
D: Really?
Q: Yes. Aren't you seeing it?
D: I'm seeing that this interiew had a pretty strange agenda.
Q: My hair is pretty short. What do you think of me?
D: I think we're done here.
Interviewer (Q) will be played by one of my alter egos. I'll play me, or one of me, or something.
Hold on to your hats.
Q: By now all our readers know that you like at least 4 things: group dynamics, blogs, Ultimate, and women. What we want to know is what's your type?
Dave: Blood type?
Q: No. Women.
D: Oh. Right. I don't really have a type.
Q: Really? What about the short-haired cutie?
D: I like short-haired cute women, but I wouldn't really call that my (air quotes) type.
Q: We'll ignore the air quotes, and say what about Natalie from Sports Night?
D: She's cute and she has short hair, but I don't see your point.
Q: Would it be safe to say that the last two women you were enamored with for longer than a week were short-haired cuties?
D: I suppose they had short hair, and of course they were cute, quite lovely actually, but...
Q: And the girl in CVS? How long was her hair?
D: It was on the shorter side.
Q: Do you see a pattern?
D: Perhaps, I see your pattern, but a "type"?
Q: All right then. How about your favorite TV show in college?
D: Ed?
Q: Carol Vescey- short hair- you see where I'm going?
D: A little bit.
Q: Ok then. Reese Witherspoon. Explain that.
D: She's a good actress?
Q: SHORT-HAIRED CUTIE.
D: Really?
Q: Yes. Aren't you seeing it?
D: I'm seeing that this interiew had a pretty strange agenda.
Q: My hair is pretty short. What do you think of me?
D: I think we're done here.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
TV on DVD
I've been watching Sports Night on DVD and I've noticed some things.
1. My office lacks the witty banter of a well-scripted show. It's not the one-liners so much as it is the follow-up.
2. My job lacks the appropriate supporting cast who love their jobs, and wacky me.
3. DVDs lack commercials. I don't miss commercials, except when I have to grab a snack. Maybe it's ok to ignore your sequence.
4. The woman who plays Natalie needs more television parts. Someone employ her. Cancel a reality show if necessary.
5. No TV is a fine thing for a home, but sometimes mindless escape is really great.
I've been watching Sports Night on DVD and I've noticed some things.
1. My office lacks the witty banter of a well-scripted show. It's not the one-liners so much as it is the follow-up.
2. My job lacks the appropriate supporting cast who love their jobs, and wacky me.
3. DVDs lack commercials. I don't miss commercials, except when I have to grab a snack. Maybe it's ok to ignore your sequence.
4. The woman who plays Natalie needs more television parts. Someone employ her. Cancel a reality show if necessary.
5. No TV is a fine thing for a home, but sometimes mindless escape is really great.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Stuff that made me smile
or laugh really hard.
The first two are probably not worth the wait if you have dial-up. I'm sorry I've become one of them. Go to the last link to feel better about yourself.
There's My Gay Boyfriend, which is pretty much hilarious.
There's Kittens singing Independent woman and playing instruments. Funny, though I'm not sure it ever ends.
This isn't as funny, but I think it's an error message we all need to see. Don't be afraid. You deserve the praise.
or laugh really hard.
The first two are probably not worth the wait if you have dial-up. I'm sorry I've become one of them. Go to the last link to feel better about yourself.
There's My Gay Boyfriend, which is pretty much hilarious.
There's Kittens singing Independent woman and playing instruments. Funny, though I'm not sure it ever ends.
This isn't as funny, but I think it's an error message we all need to see. Don't be afraid. You deserve the praise.
That big hole
I've got a little business trip coming up in a few months in Phoenix and I'm thinking, "Do I know anyone there?"
Tonight it was suggested that I rent a convertible and drive to the Grand Canyon once business is finished. On the surface this seems like a remarkably good idea. Below the surface, this seems like a remarkably good idea. We're talking sun; we're talking convertibles; we're talking wonders of the world. This is something I can totally get behind, but, and you knew there was a but, I don't know if I can do it.
What?!?, you're saying, but you're pretty adventurous. What about that wonders of the world talk?
And I know you can picture me cruisin' down the highway in a convertible, desert wind blowing through my thinning hair, Christie Brinkley pulling up along side in a Ferrari. I can picture it too and it looks pretty good.
But, and you knew I'd get to the but eventually, I made plans to go to the Grand Canyon with a girl. A girl? you say, p-shaw, you say.
It wasn't just any girl. I loved that girl. I loved that girl like no other. She made me crazy, and we never travelled particularly well together, and we haven't spoken in months, and it ended so long ago that it's supposed to really be ended by now, but if I do this, then it might really end.
It wasn't supposed to ever really end. It was supposed to be happily ever after and the craziness was supposed to take us places like the Grand Canyon, where we could rough it and be together and be ridiculously happy even when we were driving each other up the wall. Because we were together and together was more important than our differences of opinion. Together we were stronger, smarter, better. And even in the moments where we ended up weaker, dumber, and worse, we had each other and there was something beautiful and pure about that.
And maybe that's exactly why I should go. Or is it exactly why I shouldn't?
I've got a little business trip coming up in a few months in Phoenix and I'm thinking, "Do I know anyone there?"
Tonight it was suggested that I rent a convertible and drive to the Grand Canyon once business is finished. On the surface this seems like a remarkably good idea. Below the surface, this seems like a remarkably good idea. We're talking sun; we're talking convertibles; we're talking wonders of the world. This is something I can totally get behind, but, and you knew there was a but, I don't know if I can do it.
What?!?, you're saying, but you're pretty adventurous. What about that wonders of the world talk?
And I know you can picture me cruisin' down the highway in a convertible, desert wind blowing through my thinning hair, Christie Brinkley pulling up along side in a Ferrari. I can picture it too and it looks pretty good.
But, and you knew I'd get to the but eventually, I made plans to go to the Grand Canyon with a girl. A girl? you say, p-shaw, you say.
It wasn't just any girl. I loved that girl. I loved that girl like no other. She made me crazy, and we never travelled particularly well together, and we haven't spoken in months, and it ended so long ago that it's supposed to really be ended by now, but if I do this, then it might really end.
It wasn't supposed to ever really end. It was supposed to be happily ever after and the craziness was supposed to take us places like the Grand Canyon, where we could rough it and be together and be ridiculously happy even when we were driving each other up the wall. Because we were together and together was more important than our differences of opinion. Together we were stronger, smarter, better. And even in the moments where we ended up weaker, dumber, and worse, we had each other and there was something beautiful and pure about that.
And maybe that's exactly why I should go. Or is it exactly why I shouldn't?
Saturday, March 06, 2004
A new frontier
In the last month I've made a life-altering discovery. It's called Saturday morning. Admittedly, I remember hearing about Saturday mornings in college, but I thought they were myths. A fairy tale invented by those coming down after a lenghty Friday night.
Because there aren't very many of you and because I know we can keep a secret I'm going to let you in on my discovery.
Saturday mornings are real and they're fantastic. They're full of freedom. The day is laid out before you and it wants to be molded into whatever you want it to be. And the best part, and this is the reason we have to keep the secret, is that not many people know about this time. They're still in bed. So even as you experience this fantastic time, try to keep it down. There is no sense in waking "them". You can scream in ecstasy later, for now try to enjoy your freedom more serenely. Bake some cinnamon rolls, go for a bike ride, get an oil change (Cartoons don't count, though they can be satisfying for different reasons.) The key here is to accomplish something. Because if you get something done, before the rest of the world gets up, you'll feel good knowing that you've already got a notch on your belt, while "they" are still wiping crusty sleep from their eyes.
Saturday mornings- now with more freedom.
In the last month I've made a life-altering discovery. It's called Saturday morning. Admittedly, I remember hearing about Saturday mornings in college, but I thought they were myths. A fairy tale invented by those coming down after a lenghty Friday night.
Because there aren't very many of you and because I know we can keep a secret I'm going to let you in on my discovery.
Saturday mornings are real and they're fantastic. They're full of freedom. The day is laid out before you and it wants to be molded into whatever you want it to be. And the best part, and this is the reason we have to keep the secret, is that not many people know about this time. They're still in bed. So even as you experience this fantastic time, try to keep it down. There is no sense in waking "them". You can scream in ecstasy later, for now try to enjoy your freedom more serenely. Bake some cinnamon rolls, go for a bike ride, get an oil change (Cartoons don't count, though they can be satisfying for different reasons.) The key here is to accomplish something. Because if you get something done, before the rest of the world gets up, you'll feel good knowing that you've already got a notch on your belt, while "they" are still wiping crusty sleep from their eyes.
Saturday mornings- now with more freedom.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
The girl of my dreams this week
or I'm still in 6th grade, but looking forward to 7th
I asked her a simple question, "Do you have postcards?"
She looked at me quizzically and then said "No". And at that moment I discovered two things.
1. They don't have postcards at CVS.
2. Mary, behind the counter, has beautiful eyes.
I left, but those eyes kept my mind occupied. I wouldn't mind another look.
2 hours later I returned to CVS. I was going to tell Mary that she had beautiful eyes.
I marched up to the door of CVS and immediately turned around and took two steps toward the street. I steeled myself, turned back and walked through both doors of CVS.
I saw her at the counter reading and immediately turned around and walked right back out the doors. I stood outside CVS, hovering, shifting my weight from the "going-in-to-CVS" foot and the "going-back-to-the-car" foot. The car foot won that battle. Defeated, I walked back to my car.
I unlocked the car, sat down, and made fun of myself. "David's afraid of girls" I chanted disgustedly.
I got back out of the car. Locked my door and walked back to CVS. I got to the doors, paused, turned on my heels and headed back to the car. I couldn't do it. It was too embarrassinng. It served no purpose. It was silly.
I got halfway back to the car, turned on my heels and headed to CVS. It's a beautiful day. This girl is stuck inside. What harm can it do to tell her you think she has beautiful eyes? Just do it, wimp.
I paused at the doors. I took a deep breath and I charged inside. I walked up to Mary. Looked her right in the beautiful eyes and stuttered, "I was in here earlier looking for...uh...postcards."
"Yea." she said, wondering what my point was.
"I just came back to tell you that you have beautiful eyes."
And then the eyes and a smile to match suddenly lit up as she said "Thank you".
I smiled back. Tugged at my safari hat, and said, "Have a good day," as I bolted out the door and back to my car to celebrate my victory.
That should be the ending. It isn't.
More or Why can't you just let things go?
Fueled by this triumph and intrigued by the matching beautiful eyes and smile, I've let the vision of Mary carry me through the week. Eventually I convince myself, why should this stop at a compliment? Why not see if you can get a date? Because of course, a girl with beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile that you've exchanged less than 20 words with is going to want a date. Oh yea, and have I mentioned that this girl is in another state? She is.
No matter. The Internet is a magical tool. I find the CVS in another state and I write down its phone number. I would return to the scene, but that seems especially overzealous. No need to get completely carried away...yet.
After careful planning and consideration of how to best not sound like a total psycho, I call CVS.
"CVS. This is Barbara"
"May I please speak to Mary?"
"No one by that name works here."
"Short hair- worked on Sunday?"
"No."
"Oh.
Thanks."
or I'm still in 6th grade, but looking forward to 7th
I asked her a simple question, "Do you have postcards?"
She looked at me quizzically and then said "No". And at that moment I discovered two things.
1. They don't have postcards at CVS.
2. Mary, behind the counter, has beautiful eyes.
I left, but those eyes kept my mind occupied. I wouldn't mind another look.
2 hours later I returned to CVS. I was going to tell Mary that she had beautiful eyes.
I marched up to the door of CVS and immediately turned around and took two steps toward the street. I steeled myself, turned back and walked through both doors of CVS.
I saw her at the counter reading and immediately turned around and walked right back out the doors. I stood outside CVS, hovering, shifting my weight from the "going-in-to-CVS" foot and the "going-back-to-the-car" foot. The car foot won that battle. Defeated, I walked back to my car.
I unlocked the car, sat down, and made fun of myself. "David's afraid of girls" I chanted disgustedly.
I got back out of the car. Locked my door and walked back to CVS. I got to the doors, paused, turned on my heels and headed back to the car. I couldn't do it. It was too embarrassinng. It served no purpose. It was silly.
I got halfway back to the car, turned on my heels and headed to CVS. It's a beautiful day. This girl is stuck inside. What harm can it do to tell her you think she has beautiful eyes? Just do it, wimp.
I paused at the doors. I took a deep breath and I charged inside. I walked up to Mary. Looked her right in the beautiful eyes and stuttered, "I was in here earlier looking for...uh...postcards."
"Yea." she said, wondering what my point was.
"I just came back to tell you that you have beautiful eyes."
And then the eyes and a smile to match suddenly lit up as she said "Thank you".
I smiled back. Tugged at my safari hat, and said, "Have a good day," as I bolted out the door and back to my car to celebrate my victory.
That should be the ending. It isn't.
More or Why can't you just let things go?
Fueled by this triumph and intrigued by the matching beautiful eyes and smile, I've let the vision of Mary carry me through the week. Eventually I convince myself, why should this stop at a compliment? Why not see if you can get a date? Because of course, a girl with beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile that you've exchanged less than 20 words with is going to want a date. Oh yea, and have I mentioned that this girl is in another state? She is.
No matter. The Internet is a magical tool. I find the CVS in another state and I write down its phone number. I would return to the scene, but that seems especially overzealous. No need to get completely carried away...yet.
After careful planning and consideration of how to best not sound like a total psycho, I call CVS.
"CVS. This is Barbara"
"May I please speak to Mary?"
"No one by that name works here."
"Short hair- worked on Sunday?"
"No."
"Oh.
Thanks."
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
The sticker is mine
Maybe it's because I expect a Sousa march to be playing in the background, but voting never lives up to the hype. In a fit of guilt and some vague ideal, I managed to saunter to the ol' polling place and get my vote on. I don't know why, well other than the guilt and that vague ideal. I'm sorry, but I don't see how my uninformed vote in a primary really helped anyone, especially "Uncommitted to any Candidate". I didn't even know he was running.
Why does voting always feel like picking the best booger? They're all kind of gross, but the big one is probably the most satisfying pick (at least it might win).
But "yay!" I say with all the democratic sarcasm I can muster. I rocked the vote. I got the sticker. E plurbus unum, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and all that other rhetoric that means something until it becomes a sound bite just like everything else. Deep down they've probably got someone's best interests at heart, but are they mine?
Play it John Phillips. Play it loud.
Maybe it's because I expect a Sousa march to be playing in the background, but voting never lives up to the hype. In a fit of guilt and some vague ideal, I managed to saunter to the ol' polling place and get my vote on. I don't know why, well other than the guilt and that vague ideal. I'm sorry, but I don't see how my uninformed vote in a primary really helped anyone, especially "Uncommitted to any Candidate". I didn't even know he was running.
Why does voting always feel like picking the best booger? They're all kind of gross, but the big one is probably the most satisfying pick (at least it might win).
But "yay!" I say with all the democratic sarcasm I can muster. I rocked the vote. I got the sticker. E plurbus unum, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and all that other rhetoric that means something until it becomes a sound bite just like everything else. Deep down they've probably got someone's best interests at heart, but are they mine?
Play it John Phillips. Play it loud.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Everybody isn't doing it
Just because blogs blow my mind every two seconds, it appears that I'm in (probably we're in, if you're reading this) the minority. The AP will tell you that between 2% and 7% of adult Internet users have blogs and of those only 10 percent update daily.
Just because blogs blow my mind every two seconds, it appears that I'm in (probably we're in, if you're reading this) the minority. The AP will tell you that between 2% and 7% of adult Internet users have blogs and of those only 10 percent update daily.
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