The simple pleasures
Cherry blossoms- yer perdy.
Reflecting pool- yer empty.
Stew- yer tasty.
Clutch- yer loud.
Smile- yer welcome.

Cheers
For every friend's email address, we'll give you...
If you could just put your name and address here...
To win, we'll just need your phone number...

They all want my statistics. My age. My name. My occupation. My place of residence. They want it for their databases, for their credit cards, for their demographics. Usually I feed them. Have my name and email address so I can win a trip to New Zealand. Take my phone number and salary range so I can have get a trial subscription. Here's my address, now let me use your slot machines. They've all got it now. They can trade me like baseball cards, though some of them swear they won't. And mostly what I get in return is a chance, a hope...and more marketing asking me for more personal information. Are they trying to build a robot of me?

More often than not, I'm tired of it. It's not worth it anymore. Can't they just share with each other? I don't have the energy to fill out the little boxes. Free isn't free, 20 dollars isn't 20 dollars.

I had a 20 dollar Gap gift certificate, a gift from my mother, a Gap card holder. The certificate was in my hand and so were some designer skivvies, when I realized that I was going to have to fill out an application for a Gap card. With my new Gap card I could get 15% off and I could use the "$20" in my hand. I picked up an application and internally I sighed, the exasperated sigh brought on by marketing efforts. I asked the woman in front of me if she would be using her Gap card today. She eyed me suspiciously and said, "no. I don't want a Gap card."

"I don't either," I told her as she turned away trying to avoid whatever sales pitch I didn't have. I asked the woman in front of her the same question and she just glared at me. So I gave up, returned the skivvies, and left the Gap.

I was heading toward a mall exit when I realized that this "free money" was going to end up in a landfill. Surely someone could use $20 at the Gap, but for the life of me I couldn't think of anyone else who had a Gap card. I turned on my heels and marched back to the Gap. The smartly dressed young man (are there any other kind at the Gap?) at the counter beckoned me forward with a flip of his hand. I walked up and pulled out my certificate and handed it to him.

"I don't have a Gap card," I explained as he got that frightened look that accompanies the fear of both not knowing the answer and not knowing how the customer is going to react. "I don't really want a Gap card," I continued. He turned the certificate over and slightly shrugged his shoulders ready to say something sing-songy along the lines of "We're sorry. This offer is only for card holders, blah blah, blah, blah."

"So if you could just give it to the next person who uses their Gap card? Can you do that for me?"

"Sure," he said, quite unsure.

After I left, I imagine the two cashiers looked at each other and said, "Who was that?"

At least they'll never know.

Long live ZANY
I don't travel that much with Ultimate teams anymore, having settled down to this adult film...er... just adult lifestyle. I would travel, but I can get Ultimate once a week (or 5 times a week) right here, just a magical Metro ride away. So I see the same people a lot. There are so many of them that it may not really look like the same people, but in terms of Ultimate they are same. This city has made them so. I am thankful for the heartiness and the volume of Ultimate here, but where OH WHERE are the characters?

It's been a long time since I've seen anyone's bits and pieces, kilt on or kiltless. I can't even remember the last Roshambo or Bear-Ninja-Cowboy (rock-paper-scissors games used in making decisions). There was a time in my life that I assumed all major decisions were made by Roshambo. Steak n' Shake or Wendy's? Bed or Floor? To be or not to be? 1-2-3-scissors... When was the last Ultimate game where someone offered me a grab box filled with surprises in return for the right to pull? Or where my team exchanged an Afro pick for the highly-coveted pink parachute man? I don't know either.

It's the conservatives. They don't sing. They don't do limericks or haikus or even more than a handshake. They're taking over the hippy sport and the hippies are just letting them. It's like they don't even care. They won't even fight to save the game. The hippies won't fight!

It's a travel issue. The community has too much inbreeding. Where are the Canadians, with their Spirit-of-the-Game ideals? Where are the Peters with their, um, well peters flapping in the wind? Where are the Mikeys laying out and cracking jokes(on ESPN as it turns out)? The Arts with the man bringing them down? The Marks with capes for every occasion? The Houli's doing what Houlis do? The Lybrads growing to 10x their original size? Where are the Richards living the Tequila and nudity mantra? The Footes monster hucks? The Scaduto parking lot pasta nights? Or how about Joey's famous new throw? And all the rest?

Yes. It's a travel issue. A time travel issue. If I must admit it, I would say those things I'm missing were leaving even as I was. Ultimate is changing before our eyes, (fine. My eyes. But it's not my fault that you're not watching). It's getting more competitive, more organized, and more mainstream. It's a great game, some might argue the Ultimate game, but it's a game rooted in wackiness.

There's a special place in my heart for wackiness. Time travel or no, it would be a tragedy to let the wackiness go out. If you're headed to a Fool's Fest this weekend, do me a favor. Put your wacky foot forward. These are our roots. And to let them fade away would make us fools.

Bowling for Giants
All those faux-muscle types who go bowling and use the eight-pound ball so they can spin the heck out of it, should head to Maryland for some Duckpin bowling. Three pound balls with five-inch diameters can be spun like heck at the short stocky pins. Duckpin bowling is 101 years old and was born just up the street in Baltimore. It was said that when the pins were knocked down they looked just like a flock of ducks. I prefer to think that the balls were so small that angry bowling patrons starting throwing them at one another and screaming "DUCK!"
That would've been fun until someone got hurt.

Duckpin bowling, like its more traditional parental unit is frustrating. I found that it hurt me in different ways- more in the forearm rather than the wrist. Duckpin has the late Saturday night Cosmic effect that now comes with every bowling alley. Exactly when did everything become better with loud music, flashing lights and fog? The 1970's if I had to wager a guess.

Duckpin bowling, as you may have guessed, is not the sport of champions, but man you can spin the heck out of that little ball.

How hot am I?
Wait. Don't answer that.

Yesterday I had not one, but two, rather unusual but entirely mundane exchanges with the opposite sex. One involved trying to make change for a dollar and the other involved a wave. Is spring bringing out this friendliness? Does the safari hat serve to negate the otherwise intimidating look the beard and buzz seems to create? Or is my hotness and charm oozing from my every pore?

Wait. Don't answer that either, because I'll tell you. At 74 degrees, hotness and charm are oozing from my every pore and just for today we're going to call them perspiration.

Oh, you said Death Metal
I do not have an electric guitar, but tonight I would like one. It's hard to be angry with a banjo. You cannot jam your frustrations away. You can pick some sad songs (and when I play them I bring a whole new dimension of sad), but you cannot ROCK. And if you can't rock, how can you rebel? How can you roll? How can you take your day and wad it up into a little ball and then blow it the #$@% out the speakers while you scream at the top of your lungs "DIE DIE DIE YOU FILTHY THURSDAY."

You can't.

Talk about mean
I know Mean Girls is old news, but as a later early screener, I feel the need to spread my version of the "buzz". I offer my opinions with a distinct feeling that "I can't win". This movie isn't aimed at me, but here I go anyway.

I like Lindsay Lohan. This isn't some dirty old man crush, it's just that I like her. I liked her in Parent Trap, I liked her in Freaky Friday. She plays well on the screen.

I like Tina Fey. This might be a dirty young man crush, but I have to get some credit because at least part of this crush is cerebral, right?

I like the rest of the supporting cast- the janitor from Scrubs, the high schoolers, etc. etc.

I'm glad the movie was free. It wasn't the cast, obviously. The movie just didn't have enough laughs to be funny. It was still too Hollywood to sell its moral. So, I felt like I ended up very much in high school. The immediate conclusion is that I must have been traumitized by H.S. I don't think I was. It wasn't my own pain I was feeling in the theater. It was the pain of friends and acquaintances. And it seemed all too real. It made me feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Perhaps, I've been reading too much Bitch magazine, but the way women (girls) treated each other in the movie was horrible. (That was the point, I know.) And the way they tied things up in a pretty bow at the end wasn't deep enough to satisfy me. It was sweet, but if a filmmaker is going to put a real message out there, then why not sell it all the way? Because it won't sell all the way like that. Which makes me sad, too.

But Dave, it's Mean Girls with Lindsay Lohan for crying out loud, what did you expect? Exactly. I expected a sappy high school/teen comedy. I'm saying give me the teen comedy, with a superficial "Let's all be friends" message or give me a movie with a real message of "Look at how we treat women", but if you give me both, I'm not going to be happy.

This may be Bitch talking again, but I thought feminism was tougher than that.

I may have a new hero

Check out this "Indie Rocker" in the Washington Post. I've never heard his work, but his life sounds copasetic.

It's one of those annoying logins, I recommend you lie to them, nay encourage you to lie to them. I apologize to marketers, but enough is enough. Be like me. I'm a CEO who does mostly administrative work. I think I also make truckloads of money, never read the Post, have more than 4 children, and live in Granby, CO. And that's just one of my identities.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.