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

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

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

Yee-freakin'-haw.

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

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

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

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

Enthusiasm is like fungus. Only prettier.

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

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

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

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

There's always next year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sprecher's" he replied.

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

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

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


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

huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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