Details
I need some place to store these details in case I need them later.
-A little girl takes apart her toy to figure out why it makes noise. When it's in pieces, it's silent, and she remains baffled.
-A woman paints everything- chairs, vases, cabinets, but is terrified by a blank canvas.
-I went searching for shoestrings. It turned out to be quite a challenge. I found sporting goods stores, children's shoe stores, women's shoe stores, stores with only 4 shoestrings left (all in black), and shoe stores with no shoestrings at all. What? When I finally found a store that I thought would have my strings, the clerk said, "Try a grocery store." What's wrong with this world? I tried one last place where they used to sell my shoes when they were still in style. The guy there said, "Sorry. We only have regular shoestrings." I pointed at the wall filled with shoestrings of all colors and I said, "Polka dot shoestrings are regular?"
He said, "Yea."
Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
I went digging in my personal archives and decided that this one needed to see the light of the Internet. It was written in June of 2002.
Automated Forces conspiring against me
They called my name. I walked across the stage, shook hands with the appropriate officials and accepted my diploma cover. A few weeks later the proof of my 16 completed years of education would come in the mail. My ticket to anywhere had arrived. Where would I go? What would I do? The world was mine for the taking. Only it wasn’t. Options seemed to disappear faster than I could dream them up. Jobs weren’t to be found under the usual rocks and they certainly weren’t falling from the sky.
The sky. Freedom. Maybe I could work for an airline; at least until it rained employment again. I could be a baggage handler. I’m not a large man, but I can handle my baggage. I managed to get an interview with UnNamed Air (to protect the ridiculous). It was automated. A gentle recorded voice instructed me to Press 1 for yes and Press 2 for no. I answered questions abut my education, my past employment, and my skills. The gentle woman quizzed me relentlessly, but I used my keypad like a pro. I think she could detect my confidence. So she pulled out all the stops.
“I will read a statement. Using a scale of 1 to 5 decide how you feel about the statement. Press 1 if you strongly agree and 5 if you strongly disagree.”
I was ready. I even wrote it down, 1-I strongly agree;stronglyronlgy disagree. She wasnÂ’t going to fool me. I was a college graduate after all. The questions were straight-forward. The desirable answers were obvious. “I’ve always liked to kick suitcases,” she’d say. And I’d press my response. I was honest. I could see no sense in lying. I knew this was just a formality. Question after question I strongly agreed or disagreed with my automated interviewer. By now I knew she had to be impressed with my abilities. I’d handled myself so well over the phone. I was certain I would handle baggage even more skillfully.
Then things turned sour. “Thank you,” the gentle recording told me. “You’re not what we’re looking for at this time. You may try again in 6 months. Thanks for your interest in UnNamed Air.” --Click.
What!?!
I just bombed an automated interview? I have a college degree. I’m responsible, ethical, and I can lift up to 75 pounds. You’re kidding me, right?
But no one was there to hear my plea. It was true, my ticket to anywhere couldn’t even get me into the local airport. I called Time and Temperature just to make sure automated systems weren’t out to get me. “88 degrees at 3:45 PM,” the aging gentleman told me. It seems hotter than 88 degrees, doesn’t it?
Automated Forces conspiring against me
They called my name. I walked across the stage, shook hands with the appropriate officials and accepted my diploma cover. A few weeks later the proof of my 16 completed years of education would come in the mail. My ticket to anywhere had arrived. Where would I go? What would I do? The world was mine for the taking. Only it wasn’t. Options seemed to disappear faster than I could dream them up. Jobs weren’t to be found under the usual rocks and they certainly weren’t falling from the sky.
The sky. Freedom. Maybe I could work for an airline; at least until it rained employment again. I could be a baggage handler. I’m not a large man, but I can handle my baggage. I managed to get an interview with UnNamed Air (to protect the ridiculous). It was automated. A gentle recorded voice instructed me to Press 1 for yes and Press 2 for no. I answered questions abut my education, my past employment, and my skills. The gentle woman quizzed me relentlessly, but I used my keypad like a pro. I think she could detect my confidence. So she pulled out all the stops.
“I will read a statement. Using a scale of 1 to 5 decide how you feel about the statement. Press 1 if you strongly agree and 5 if you strongly disagree.”
I was ready. I even wrote it down, 1-I strongly agree;stronglyronlgy disagree. She wasnÂ’t going to fool me. I was a college graduate after all. The questions were straight-forward. The desirable answers were obvious. “I’ve always liked to kick suitcases,” she’d say. And I’d press my response. I was honest. I could see no sense in lying. I knew this was just a formality. Question after question I strongly agreed or disagreed with my automated interviewer. By now I knew she had to be impressed with my abilities. I’d handled myself so well over the phone. I was certain I would handle baggage even more skillfully.
Then things turned sour. “Thank you,” the gentle recording told me. “You’re not what we’re looking for at this time. You may try again in 6 months. Thanks for your interest in UnNamed Air.” --Click.
What!?!
I just bombed an automated interview? I have a college degree. I’m responsible, ethical, and I can lift up to 75 pounds. You’re kidding me, right?
But no one was there to hear my plea. It was true, my ticket to anywhere couldn’t even get me into the local airport. I called Time and Temperature just to make sure automated systems weren’t out to get me. “88 degrees at 3:45 PM,” the aging gentleman told me. It seems hotter than 88 degrees, doesn’t it?
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
When anyone says TV Guide scream real loud
PeeWee's Big Adventure was on TV last night. The TV Guide Channel listing described it as, "A childlike man searches for his missing bike." When I saw the description I thought the TV Guide had missed it completely, so I set out to write a better description. Here's what I came up with during the commercial breaks. Maybe TV Guide wasn't so far off...
PeeWee's Big Adventure:
-An epic journey through Texas navigated by a screaming dancing Paul Reubens.
- The perilous road between the 'hoods, adult and child.
-1990's Keraouc on Ritalin searches for bike and innocence.
PeeWee's Big Adventure was on TV last night. The TV Guide Channel listing described it as, "A childlike man searches for his missing bike." When I saw the description I thought the TV Guide had missed it completely, so I set out to write a better description. Here's what I came up with during the commercial breaks. Maybe TV Guide wasn't so far off...
PeeWee's Big Adventure:
-An epic journey through Texas navigated by a screaming dancing Paul Reubens.
- The perilous road between the 'hoods, adult and child.
-1990's Keraouc on Ritalin searches for bike and innocence.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
I've got the madness now
I'd love to tell you that I knew where George Mason University was a month ago, but I can't (Fairfax, VA). That didn't stop me from standing in the airport today, huddled with other George Mason fans, be they recent converts or not, as we watched the final 37 seconds of overtime against the University of Connecticut. The crowd cheered and sighed together as fouls were given, free throws were missed, and the three-pointer that would have ended this cinderella story bounced to the right as the clock ticked 0.0.
On my ride home from the airport I encountered more George Mason faithful. As they poured into the Metro station the green and gold exchanged cheers. They boarded the Metro and one car was rockin' to the chants of "G-M-U- WHAT? G-M-U WHAT?"
I didn't fill out a bracket, but I know whose bandwagon I'm jumping on.
That's right, G-M-U.
I'd love to tell you that I knew where George Mason University was a month ago, but I can't (Fairfax, VA). That didn't stop me from standing in the airport today, huddled with other George Mason fans, be they recent converts or not, as we watched the final 37 seconds of overtime against the University of Connecticut. The crowd cheered and sighed together as fouls were given, free throws were missed, and the three-pointer that would have ended this cinderella story bounced to the right as the clock ticked 0.0.
On my ride home from the airport I encountered more George Mason faithful. As they poured into the Metro station the green and gold exchanged cheers. They boarded the Metro and one car was rockin' to the chants of "G-M-U- WHAT? G-M-U WHAT?"
I didn't fill out a bracket, but I know whose bandwagon I'm jumping on.
That's right, G-M-U.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
The Order of the Chincoteague Ninjas
My mother has joined the Order of the Chincoteague Ninjas. How do I know? She has a Chincoteague Ninja star. Granted, it isn't on the front of the house, which perhaps means she is only a supporter of the Chincoteague Ninjas and not in fact a member. I would ask, but I am fearful of the repercussions.
Long ago, the Chincoteague Ninjas, as you may or may not know, were exiled from Portugal before Portugal was Portugal. They had wasted valuable tin resources forming stars instead of cans for vine-ripened tomatoes. They had angered a factory foreman who also happened to be the king's nephew. Dramatically, the king had pointed to the seas and then asked nicely if the ninjas would leave. He said it with such a royal smile that the factory workers who would become ninjas could not defy him. Plus, they'd never really liked Portugal before it was Portugal. You see, they weren't ninjas at that point. They were men with families who had not yet found their place. They were just factory workers that liked big tin stars.
The next day, the men that had been asked to leave did not leave. Instead they waited for the rain to stop. The day after that though, they loaded their families onto tiny horses and rode those tiny horses across the seas. Those horses were sea horses and had rich breeding history and names like "Salty Pete" and "Waves of Peppermint" to mention only two of the more storied of the sea horses. When the factory workers reached an island, they stopped. They were tired of galloping over the seas and so they decided to settle the island right then and there. There was immediate argument over what to name the island. The citizens of this new place across the seas went back and forth between "Land of tin stars" and "Future site of American Legion Karaoke bars." Those are only rough translations, of course. Eventually a compromise was reached and bits of both names were taken. Chinco, meaning tin stars and Tage meaning bad singing were combined to form bad singing tin stars, this was quickly mispronounced and mangled until it became Chincoteague, or "tin stars all up in your grille."
It was this very attitude contained in the name of a mispronounced island, that led the factory workers to become ninjas, though not immediately. First they had to build ice cream shops and beach trinket businesses. A small group also began to learn the art of taffy-making. It was taffy in fact which led to the factioning of the citizens of Chincoteague island. The purists felt that taffy should not be made at all. They felt it was an affront to the gods, besides being very difficult to remove from between teeth. The purists were persecuted, called foul names, and shipped to a neighboring island dubbed Assateague for reasons which I think are too clear to mention. The purists raised horses and lived peaceably. Other than their feelings on taffy, many feel that these citizens were what historians like to call, "pretty freakin' wise."
The remaining citizens of Chincoteague still had one point of contention and that point was stretched out and refolded like taffy. That point actually was taffy. A large portion of the citizens felt taffy should be made for the gods and served on tin stars. They reasoned that no greater island treat had ever been discovered and only the gods should delight in the taffy. The other faction felt that taffy should be made for profit and they had other uses for their tin stars. Quietly at night, this group began training with the tin stars as weapons. They worked within a code of silence, secrecy, and other s words which can and should be applied to the more traditional ninja. Quickly, this faction had a trained army of candy-striped warriors ready to do battle with their tin stars.
One man, Ben as he was known by those closest to him, had uncovered his unique ability to wield multiple tin stars in battle. The battles against the taffy-loving hinged on Ben's ability to decimate those around him, but the Chincoteague ninjas as they became known, were not cold-blooded killers and the threat of death by the tin star soon became enough for them to overcome the taffy-loving. It was a strangely sweet and bloody time in the island's history.
Still to this day, you will find the mark of order of the Chincoteague Ninjas all around this small area. They were silent and deadly, but they are not to be forgotten, because still to this day, you will find ninja descendants making a fast buck with that beach favorite, taffy.
My mother has joined the Order of the Chincoteague Ninjas. How do I know? She has a Chincoteague Ninja star. Granted, it isn't on the front of the house, which perhaps means she is only a supporter of the Chincoteague Ninjas and not in fact a member. I would ask, but I am fearful of the repercussions.
Long ago, the Chincoteague Ninjas, as you may or may not know, were exiled from Portugal before Portugal was Portugal. They had wasted valuable tin resources forming stars instead of cans for vine-ripened tomatoes. They had angered a factory foreman who also happened to be the king's nephew. Dramatically, the king had pointed to the seas and then asked nicely if the ninjas would leave. He said it with such a royal smile that the factory workers who would become ninjas could not defy him. Plus, they'd never really liked Portugal before it was Portugal. You see, they weren't ninjas at that point. They were men with families who had not yet found their place. They were just factory workers that liked big tin stars.
The next day, the men that had been asked to leave did not leave. Instead they waited for the rain to stop. The day after that though, they loaded their families onto tiny horses and rode those tiny horses across the seas. Those horses were sea horses and had rich breeding history and names like "Salty Pete" and "Waves of Peppermint" to mention only two of the more storied of the sea horses. When the factory workers reached an island, they stopped. They were tired of galloping over the seas and so they decided to settle the island right then and there. There was immediate argument over what to name the island. The citizens of this new place across the seas went back and forth between "Land of tin stars" and "Future site of American Legion Karaoke bars." Those are only rough translations, of course. Eventually a compromise was reached and bits of both names were taken. Chinco, meaning tin stars and Tage meaning bad singing were combined to form bad singing tin stars, this was quickly mispronounced and mangled until it became Chincoteague, or "tin stars all up in your grille."
It was this very attitude contained in the name of a mispronounced island, that led the factory workers to become ninjas, though not immediately. First they had to build ice cream shops and beach trinket businesses. A small group also began to learn the art of taffy-making. It was taffy in fact which led to the factioning of the citizens of Chincoteague island. The purists felt that taffy should not be made at all. They felt it was an affront to the gods, besides being very difficult to remove from between teeth. The purists were persecuted, called foul names, and shipped to a neighboring island dubbed Assateague for reasons which I think are too clear to mention. The purists raised horses and lived peaceably. Other than their feelings on taffy, many feel that these citizens were what historians like to call, "pretty freakin' wise."
The remaining citizens of Chincoteague still had one point of contention and that point was stretched out and refolded like taffy. That point actually was taffy. A large portion of the citizens felt taffy should be made for the gods and served on tin stars. They reasoned that no greater island treat had ever been discovered and only the gods should delight in the taffy. The other faction felt that taffy should be made for profit and they had other uses for their tin stars. Quietly at night, this group began training with the tin stars as weapons. They worked within a code of silence, secrecy, and other s words which can and should be applied to the more traditional ninja. Quickly, this faction had a trained army of candy-striped warriors ready to do battle with their tin stars.
One man, Ben as he was known by those closest to him, had uncovered his unique ability to wield multiple tin stars in battle. The battles against the taffy-loving hinged on Ben's ability to decimate those around him, but the Chincoteague ninjas as they became known, were not cold-blooded killers and the threat of death by the tin star soon became enough for them to overcome the taffy-loving. It was a strangely sweet and bloody time in the island's history.
Still to this day, you will find the mark of order of the Chincoteague Ninjas all around this small area. They were silent and deadly, but they are not to be forgotten, because still to this day, you will find ninja descendants making a fast buck with that beach favorite, taffy.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Undecided Thursday
With agitation Tuesday days behind me, I have moved on to the aforementioned undecided Thursday. Today, not even my eyes can decide what color to be. Mr. Lefty is browner than usual, while Cap'n Right-o has this hazy greenish blue thing going on in the middle and drifting to the right side. Sometimes I think my clothing choices affect my eye color, but I was shirtless while making this observation. So, either this is my natural eye color or else I have mood eyes.
Mood eyes. Coming soon to a leer near you.
With agitation Tuesday days behind me, I have moved on to the aforementioned undecided Thursday. Today, not even my eyes can decide what color to be. Mr. Lefty is browner than usual, while Cap'n Right-o has this hazy greenish blue thing going on in the middle and drifting to the right side. Sometimes I think my clothing choices affect my eye color, but I was shirtless while making this observation. So, either this is my natural eye color or else I have mood eyes.
Mood eyes. Coming soon to a leer near you.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
A theory gets lost in there
or Life is a spin cycle
I was all set to blame Original Scent Tide for my flip-flopped smile of late. The weather, after all, has been nearly perfect here. The crutches are gathering dust in a closet. The mailman keeps delivering letters. My arch nemesis has returned and now I know whence she came. (And I just used "whence!"- not correctly, I had to remove from, but...) The chorus of "it could be worse" continues to screech in my yet-undestroyed-by-the-pod ears. (I have a whole other unformed theory about "it could be worse" that I'm saving for a day when it is worse.) So, basically I've had nothing to complain about. My smile should have been right-side up and it wasn't. I started to examine the downturn and realized that it pretty much coincided with my purchase of Original Scent Tide. It could be worse, of course, it could be Mountain Fresh. It could be better too. Why, it could be No Scent if the grocery store had not forced its hand on this issue, just like they have on the spicy black bean burgers. Oh if only the INSANE spicy blackbean disease had not felled that mighty bean and caused the shortage of '06.
No Scent Tide, like the burger, isn't being stocked at my friendly neighborhood grocer. Have I ever told you about the spunky Asian woman at my friendly neighborhood grocer? She's about 4 foot 8 inches tall, has clear braces and if she isn't the manager yet, she will be one day soon. She commands the store. I'm awed by people that command things, especially small people. If I ever meet a leprechaun, I'm going to go nuts. Or possibly, I'm going to go nuts and meet a leprechaun. I wonder how the woman feels about No Scent Tide. Maybe she could make a change. In the meantime, I realized that it wasn't a scent that was causing my gloom. Or maybe it was, but thirty minutes of exercise and an Orson Scott Card novel and suddenly I'm bubbling over with enthusiasm. Life is washing machine and sometimes that means agitation.
or Life is a spin cycle
I was all set to blame Original Scent Tide for my flip-flopped smile of late. The weather, after all, has been nearly perfect here. The crutches are gathering dust in a closet. The mailman keeps delivering letters. My arch nemesis has returned and now I know whence she came. (And I just used "whence!"- not correctly, I had to remove from, but...) The chorus of "it could be worse" continues to screech in my yet-undestroyed-by-the-pod ears. (I have a whole other unformed theory about "it could be worse" that I'm saving for a day when it is worse.) So, basically I've had nothing to complain about. My smile should have been right-side up and it wasn't. I started to examine the downturn and realized that it pretty much coincided with my purchase of Original Scent Tide. It could be worse, of course, it could be Mountain Fresh. It could be better too. Why, it could be No Scent if the grocery store had not forced its hand on this issue, just like they have on the spicy black bean burgers. Oh if only the INSANE spicy blackbean disease had not felled that mighty bean and caused the shortage of '06.
No Scent Tide, like the burger, isn't being stocked at my friendly neighborhood grocer. Have I ever told you about the spunky Asian woman at my friendly neighborhood grocer? She's about 4 foot 8 inches tall, has clear braces and if she isn't the manager yet, she will be one day soon. She commands the store. I'm awed by people that command things, especially small people. If I ever meet a leprechaun, I'm going to go nuts. Or possibly, I'm going to go nuts and meet a leprechaun. I wonder how the woman feels about No Scent Tide. Maybe she could make a change. In the meantime, I realized that it wasn't a scent that was causing my gloom. Or maybe it was, but thirty minutes of exercise and an Orson Scott Card novel and suddenly I'm bubbling over with enthusiasm. Life is washing machine and sometimes that means agitation.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Housekeeping
Dinner
With the two-pronged fork he skewered a slab of meat that had been marinating overnight. It was already past time for dinner. Uncooked meat wasn't on the menu. With a nod to tomorrow's meal, he placed the roast in the oven for 2 hours just as he heard the ding of the microwave. Flipping the Gardenburger wraps so they'd heat evenly, he checked once more on the pound and a half of pig now warming in the oven.
Conflicts? What conflicts?
Chores
I'm in laundry debt. There's a pile of clothes that I just can't seem to get clean. Every week I scrape together what I need to get by, but the pile only seems to grow. It might seem like laundry interest, but trust me, it's dis-interest.
If I declare laundry bankruptcy, can I start over?
Dinner
With the two-pronged fork he skewered a slab of meat that had been marinating overnight. It was already past time for dinner. Uncooked meat wasn't on the menu. With a nod to tomorrow's meal, he placed the roast in the oven for 2 hours just as he heard the ding of the microwave. Flipping the Gardenburger wraps so they'd heat evenly, he checked once more on the pound and a half of pig now warming in the oven.
Conflicts? What conflicts?
Chores
I'm in laundry debt. There's a pile of clothes that I just can't seem to get clean. Every week I scrape together what I need to get by, but the pile only seems to grow. It might seem like laundry interest, but trust me, it's dis-interest.
If I declare laundry bankruptcy, can I start over?
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I'm a digital boy living in a digital world
Labels Halt Downloads to Increase CD sales is fascinating. Here we are in the instant-everything age and music labels are trying to figure out whether releasing singles prior to the album release is less profitable. I'll be interested to see where the labels end up after they've had some more time on this one. It seems to me that counting on radio play and marketing to build excitement for an album is risky business. Do kids even listen to the radio these days? And is waiting really going to increase album sales? I know people who are perfectly happy with the "upper right-hand corner" of their Picasso. I have to admit that I'm pretty pleased that I can buy a single song for $0.99 these days. I always found the "single" to be a rip-off and I didn't buy many albums to get just one song. I don't think the timing of the release is going to affect that for me.
Labels Halt Downloads to Increase CD sales is fascinating. Here we are in the instant-everything age and music labels are trying to figure out whether releasing singles prior to the album release is less profitable. I'll be interested to see where the labels end up after they've had some more time on this one. It seems to me that counting on radio play and marketing to build excitement for an album is risky business. Do kids even listen to the radio these days? And is waiting really going to increase album sales? I know people who are perfectly happy with the "upper right-hand corner" of their Picasso. I have to admit that I'm pretty pleased that I can buy a single song for $0.99 these days. I always found the "single" to be a rip-off and I didn't buy many albums to get just one song. I don't think the timing of the release is going to affect that for me.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Another sad day in baseball
Kirby's gone and it was my sense that he was one of the "good guys." I'm going to cling to that, especially after reading about Barry Bonds in the recent Sports Illustrated. Thinking about baseball almost breaks my heart.
When I was younger, I used to collect baseball cards, read baseball books, and play baseball. My measly batting average was directly comparable to those guys in Royals stadium. Not the measly part necessarily, just the fact that we both had these numbers. Their numbers were printed on the backs of cards and could be compared to the greats of all time. Baseball is as much about what's on the paper and in peoples' memories as it is about what's going on now. It's the coolest statistics class ever. Yes. Cooler than Dr. Larry's. It has such a great and storied history. I don't even like to watch it anymore, but I can still appreciate the history- Dimaggio, Durocher, Gehrig, Ruth, Robinson, Reese, Kofax, Williams, and on and on. Great players that those players I used to watch aspired to be, and sometimes I aspired to be.
What's the point of aspiring to that on performance-enhancing drugs? Or worse for kids now aspiring to the numbers of the performance-enhanced? It's so sad. Sadder than my baseball career, even.
I was on a team called the Angels. It was my third team. My first team, Well's painting only won one game. I remember my coach from that team. He was a portly man. He had a good heart. Questionable taste in uniform colors, but a good heart. I liked baseball that year. My second year of baseball was with a team called Regal Plastics. We wore blue pin stripes. That team never won a game. I think I got to pitch a few times. I continued to hit poorly and play marginal defense. It wasn't a bad year. Then I joined the Angels. The Angels were good. Several of the team members would go on to high school sports stardom. We went something like 12-3 that year. I made a few nice catches in the outfield, but mostly I rode the bench. I ate sunflower seeds and talked with another David. He was a good friend that year, but I realized that baseball wasn't fun from the bench. I quit baseball after that. I figured that was pretty much it for me and sports. I was wrong about that, but baseball has never really gained a toehold again for me. Today doesn't help the poor game.
Kirby's gone and it was my sense that he was one of the "good guys." I'm going to cling to that, especially after reading about Barry Bonds in the recent Sports Illustrated. Thinking about baseball almost breaks my heart.
When I was younger, I used to collect baseball cards, read baseball books, and play baseball. My measly batting average was directly comparable to those guys in Royals stadium. Not the measly part necessarily, just the fact that we both had these numbers. Their numbers were printed on the backs of cards and could be compared to the greats of all time. Baseball is as much about what's on the paper and in peoples' memories as it is about what's going on now. It's the coolest statistics class ever. Yes. Cooler than Dr. Larry's. It has such a great and storied history. I don't even like to watch it anymore, but I can still appreciate the history- Dimaggio, Durocher, Gehrig, Ruth, Robinson, Reese, Kofax, Williams, and on and on. Great players that those players I used to watch aspired to be, and sometimes I aspired to be.
What's the point of aspiring to that on performance-enhancing drugs? Or worse for kids now aspiring to the numbers of the performance-enhanced? It's so sad. Sadder than my baseball career, even.
I was on a team called the Angels. It was my third team. My first team, Well's painting only won one game. I remember my coach from that team. He was a portly man. He had a good heart. Questionable taste in uniform colors, but a good heart. I liked baseball that year. My second year of baseball was with a team called Regal Plastics. We wore blue pin stripes. That team never won a game. I think I got to pitch a few times. I continued to hit poorly and play marginal defense. It wasn't a bad year. Then I joined the Angels. The Angels were good. Several of the team members would go on to high school sports stardom. We went something like 12-3 that year. I made a few nice catches in the outfield, but mostly I rode the bench. I ate sunflower seeds and talked with another David. He was a good friend that year, but I realized that baseball wasn't fun from the bench. I quit baseball after that. I figured that was pretty much it for me and sports. I was wrong about that, but baseball has never really gained a toehold again for me. Today doesn't help the poor game.
Monday, March 06, 2006
So glad
I've freed up my hands so that I can jam them in my pockets. So glad that I can once again stand up straight so that I can slouch while I walk. So glad that I can walk so that I can feel bad about not running. So glad that my "appreciate what you've got" lasted all of 5 minutes.
I'm walking again and off the crutch ride. This morning the crutches would have been faster. There are moments where I still find myself ready to crawl into the next room or where I'm leaning heavily to the good side. I know these things take time, but three weeks was time. Shouldn't I be able to put down the crutches and step straight into a pair of running shoes? What's all of this strengthening talk?
I threw a disc today. I will be back. Soon.
I've freed up my hands so that I can jam them in my pockets. So glad that I can once again stand up straight so that I can slouch while I walk. So glad that I can walk so that I can feel bad about not running. So glad that my "appreciate what you've got" lasted all of 5 minutes.
I'm walking again and off the crutch ride. This morning the crutches would have been faster. There are moments where I still find myself ready to crawl into the next room or where I'm leaning heavily to the good side. I know these things take time, but three weeks was time. Shouldn't I be able to put down the crutches and step straight into a pair of running shoes? What's all of this strengthening talk?
I threw a disc today. I will be back. Soon.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
It's all about the music
The wedding music
I've been reading entirely too much about weddings, lately. (I'm blaming you, Sweeney. Since I started reading your blog, at least three other blogs I read have gone wedding-y.) How do I know that weddings have entered my consciousness just a wee bit much? Let me tell you. I was listening to Tennessee Waltz on Hem's latest, No Word from Tom, and I thought, "Hmm. Might be a good dance for my daughter and me at her wedding." WHAT!?!
There's no daughter. There's no wedding. There's no!!!! AH!
Here are the lyrics (credit Redd Stewart and Pee Wee King),
I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee waltz
When an old friend I happened to see
I introduced her to my loved one
And while they were dancing
My friend stole my sweetheart from me
I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
When I lost my little darling the night they were playing
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
Yes I lost my little darling the night they were playing
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
The crazy guy music
There is something about fingerless gloves that makes me think of crazy homeless people. I don't know what it is. Bikers wear fingerless gloves. Hunters wear fingerless gloves, but when folks aren't biking or hunting I assume crazy.
Now, I've taken to wearing my bike gloves as crutch gloves. They have good palm padding. It just made sense. Still I can't help feeling a little crazy with my gloves and my crutches. Today, I was sitting on the Metro in my fingerless gloves. My crutches were propped up next to me. Just a little crazy maybe, until, I reached into my bag and started fiddling with my new CD. So I added crinkling of cellophane to this whole picture. Fingerless gloves, crutches, fiddling with items in a bag- CRAY-z guy. Crazy bearded guy, no less. Oh my. This inspired me to sing a song as I crutched it home. That's right, crazy guy singing to himself. You've got to love it. Here are parts of my song. We don't make excuses for crazy here.
Fingerless Gloves
Wearing fingerless gloves
searching for bittersweet loves
My palms are covered
My fingers are not
Don't you wonder
What I've got
Fingerless glove
searching for love
My fingers are free
my heart at cost
Fingerless gloves
what have you lost?
My fingers can feel.
the sweat of my brow.
My hands are covered.
My fingers are not.
Don't you wonder
What I've got?
I forgot the rest, but it went on for at least 10 minutes.
The wedding music
I've been reading entirely too much about weddings, lately. (I'm blaming you, Sweeney. Since I started reading your blog, at least three other blogs I read have gone wedding-y.) How do I know that weddings have entered my consciousness just a wee bit much? Let me tell you. I was listening to Tennessee Waltz on Hem's latest, No Word from Tom, and I thought, "Hmm. Might be a good dance for my daughter and me at her wedding." WHAT!?!
There's no daughter. There's no wedding. There's no!!!! AH!
Here are the lyrics (credit Redd Stewart and Pee Wee King),
I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee waltz
When an old friend I happened to see
I introduced her to my loved one
And while they were dancing
My friend stole my sweetheart from me
I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
When I lost my little darling the night they were playing
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
Yes I lost my little darling the night they were playing
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
The crazy guy music
There is something about fingerless gloves that makes me think of crazy homeless people. I don't know what it is. Bikers wear fingerless gloves. Hunters wear fingerless gloves, but when folks aren't biking or hunting I assume crazy.
Now, I've taken to wearing my bike gloves as crutch gloves. They have good palm padding. It just made sense. Still I can't help feeling a little crazy with my gloves and my crutches. Today, I was sitting on the Metro in my fingerless gloves. My crutches were propped up next to me. Just a little crazy maybe, until, I reached into my bag and started fiddling with my new CD. So I added crinkling of cellophane to this whole picture. Fingerless gloves, crutches, fiddling with items in a bag- CRAY-z guy. Crazy bearded guy, no less. Oh my. This inspired me to sing a song as I crutched it home. That's right, crazy guy singing to himself. You've got to love it. Here are parts of my song. We don't make excuses for crazy here.
Fingerless Gloves
Wearing fingerless gloves
searching for bittersweet loves
My palms are covered
My fingers are not
Don't you wonder
What I've got
Fingerless glove
searching for love
My fingers are free
my heart at cost
Fingerless gloves
what have you lost?
My fingers can feel.
the sweat of my brow.
My hands are covered.
My fingers are not.
Don't you wonder
What I've got?
I forgot the rest, but it went on for at least 10 minutes.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Hello Tuesday
I'm pounding cherry limeades one after another. Just throwing them back like every serving doesn't contain 10% real fruit juice. I've got my feet propped up on the coffee table. My slut-red toenails are glistening by the light of the 75 watters. I can almost feel my chest hair growing, but still I'm looking for something. I stop the pounding for a moment to change the channel. A little belch. A little scratch. Ah. There it is. The Gilmore Girls.
I'm pounding cherry limeades one after another. Just throwing them back like every serving doesn't contain 10% real fruit juice. I've got my feet propped up on the coffee table. My slut-red toenails are glistening by the light of the 75 watters. I can almost feel my chest hair growing, but still I'm looking for something. I stop the pounding for a moment to change the channel. A little belch. A little scratch. Ah. There it is. The Gilmore Girls.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Don't cry for me NY Times
It's a linkfest and it all ends in NYT.
The much talked about Modern Love led me to this article about working abroad. Very interesting.
It's a linkfest and it all ends in NYT.
The much talked about Modern Love led me to this article about working abroad. Very interesting.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Giving it my all
My wastebasket shooting percentage has plummeted in recent weeks. For a while there I was hitting shots from the naugahyde chairs, from the sink. I was automatic. I was hydromatic. I wasn't Greased Lightning, but I could hold my own with an empty bread bag or a wadded up paper towel. Lately though, I've been shooting blanks. It's trashcan airball after trashcan airball. It's like there is a force field surrounding our wastebasket. Nothing goes in. If it wasn't for the tenacious rebounding skills of "Rodman" Reuben our kitchen would be littered with my misses. Luckily, he's been there for the put back.
I'm in a slump, but I'm going to keep shooting. That's what the greats do. I'm always looking for the assist too, but those opportunities can get pretty scarce.
My wastebasket shooting percentage has plummeted in recent weeks. For a while there I was hitting shots from the naugahyde chairs, from the sink. I was automatic. I was hydromatic. I wasn't Greased Lightning, but I could hold my own with an empty bread bag or a wadded up paper towel. Lately though, I've been shooting blanks. It's trashcan airball after trashcan airball. It's like there is a force field surrounding our wastebasket. Nothing goes in. If it wasn't for the tenacious rebounding skills of "Rodman" Reuben our kitchen would be littered with my misses. Luckily, he's been there for the put back.
I'm in a slump, but I'm going to keep shooting. That's what the greats do. I'm always looking for the assist too, but those opportunities can get pretty scarce.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Those Mancusos sure are screamers
I've been hitting the Olympics pretty hard the last couple of nights. I have to try to slurp down a few more Olympic moments to hold me over for another couple of years. I dig the Olympics. I admire the athletes and their sacrifice. I love the competition and the joy that comes from incredible performances, but I've had just about enough of the media. Have we really gained anything from sticking a microphone in someone's face immediately after victory or loss? I got it. When Julie Mancuso was screaming and her family was screaming, I understood that she was overjoyed. When Jeret "Speedy" Petersen didn't quite nail his "hurricane" I understood that he was disappointed, but not beaten. I don't need a reporter to shove a microphone in the competitor's face to get an inane quote like, "it hasn't sunk in yet." Just let the cameraman capture it and then give the athlete a chance for it to sink in. That way later in the studio we can hear insightful comments from the likes of "The Flying Tomato" about how Burton lets him choose the buttons on his clothing line.
All right. Fine. The Olympics reminds me that I'm glad that I'm not famous because then I might have to try to answer ridiculous questions while I'm still out of breath from another stirring curling performance. (I don't get curling and I'm ok with that. I hope curlers don't begrudge me for that.)
My favorite Olympic moment this time around was from Nordic combined. I didn't even see the ski jump portion. I just saw the lead pack of three get eaten up by the favorite who was coming out of seventh when the cross-country skiing portion began. Only the leader refused to get passed, so the favorite and this young kid pulled away and the young kid stayed tough and won the gold. Then in the race for the bronze, they had to go to the photo finish and even then it was hard to determine whose boot crossed the line first. It was awesome. I don't know the people's names involved. I don't even know the countries. I just know that it was special.
I've been hitting the Olympics pretty hard the last couple of nights. I have to try to slurp down a few more Olympic moments to hold me over for another couple of years. I dig the Olympics. I admire the athletes and their sacrifice. I love the competition and the joy that comes from incredible performances, but I've had just about enough of the media. Have we really gained anything from sticking a microphone in someone's face immediately after victory or loss? I got it. When Julie Mancuso was screaming and her family was screaming, I understood that she was overjoyed. When Jeret "Speedy" Petersen didn't quite nail his "hurricane" I understood that he was disappointed, but not beaten. I don't need a reporter to shove a microphone in the competitor's face to get an inane quote like, "it hasn't sunk in yet." Just let the cameraman capture it and then give the athlete a chance for it to sink in. That way later in the studio we can hear insightful comments from the likes of "The Flying Tomato" about how Burton lets him choose the buttons on his clothing line.
All right. Fine. The Olympics reminds me that I'm glad that I'm not famous because then I might have to try to answer ridiculous questions while I'm still out of breath from another stirring curling performance. (I don't get curling and I'm ok with that. I hope curlers don't begrudge me for that.)
My favorite Olympic moment this time around was from Nordic combined. I didn't even see the ski jump portion. I just saw the lead pack of three get eaten up by the favorite who was coming out of seventh when the cross-country skiing portion began. Only the leader refused to get passed, so the favorite and this young kid pulled away and the young kid stayed tough and won the gold. Then in the race for the bronze, they had to go to the photo finish and even then it was hard to determine whose boot crossed the line first. It was awesome. I don't know the people's names involved. I don't even know the countries. I just know that it was special.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
ARGHHHHH!
I fell on my face. I've been trying to think of a way to make it poetic or life-affirming, or anything other than what it is. I can't. I fell on my face. There was a moment as I was falling where the world blurred and slowed down. That was the moment where I contorted a little bit, so my face would land on the floor rather than against a bookshelf. Strangely, it didn't hurt when I landed. I was just a little stunned. I looked briefly at the carpet beneath my lips and then thanked the bookshelf for staying out of my way. I realized as I propped myself back up that possibly some of the rest of my body absorbed the blow, so maybe I didn't really fall on my face. I'm pretty unclear and still a little perplexed.
The face is fine, the patience, fraying.
I fell on my face. I've been trying to think of a way to make it poetic or life-affirming, or anything other than what it is. I can't. I fell on my face. There was a moment as I was falling where the world blurred and slowed down. That was the moment where I contorted a little bit, so my face would land on the floor rather than against a bookshelf. Strangely, it didn't hurt when I landed. I was just a little stunned. I looked briefly at the carpet beneath my lips and then thanked the bookshelf for staying out of my way. I realized as I propped myself back up that possibly some of the rest of my body absorbed the blow, so maybe I didn't really fall on my face. I'm pretty unclear and still a little perplexed.
The face is fine, the patience, fraying.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Triumphs of the un-wonderdog variety and assorted other good news
*My crutch-ride to the Metro today was closer to 20 minutes than 30 minutes. I also think I can feel my stomach muscles starting to enjoy themselves as my legs swing through to the next step.
*When I dropped off a rental car, the counter guy noticed that I took almost full advantage of the pre-pay gas option by leaving the tank nearly dry. I barely had to try!
*I just got a gift certificate in the mail for last year's running. I didn't even know I could win stuff. Now I want to go run.
*I just remembered that I saw The Matador the other night and the funniest part was when the projector shut off at a "pivotal" moment. The best part was when the theater gave us a free ticket for our inconvenience. (Don't see that movie. I don't know what is wrong with kids today. One told me it was "hilarious.")
*I have banjo fingers starting to re-emerge.
*Tom Petty won't back down. I'm thinking I'll follow his lead.
*My crutch-ride to the Metro today was closer to 20 minutes than 30 minutes. I also think I can feel my stomach muscles starting to enjoy themselves as my legs swing through to the next step.
*When I dropped off a rental car, the counter guy noticed that I took almost full advantage of the pre-pay gas option by leaving the tank nearly dry. I barely had to try!
*I just got a gift certificate in the mail for last year's running. I didn't even know I could win stuff. Now I want to go run.
*I just remembered that I saw The Matador the other night and the funniest part was when the projector shut off at a "pivotal" moment. The best part was when the theater gave us a free ticket for our inconvenience. (Don't see that movie. I don't know what is wrong with kids today. One told me it was "hilarious.")
*I have banjo fingers starting to re-emerge.
*Tom Petty won't back down. I'm thinking I'll follow his lead.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Sprain boy drones on
I'm fairly sick of being in my own head. When that happens I usually try to avoid this here dee-verrr-sion, but not today. Today I'm going to prattle on about sprains, overcoming hardship, and how much I miss the use of my foot. Or I'm going to write six more sentences, look angrily at the screen and push "Publish Post" and walk away. Only time will tell.
I've learned some interesting lessons in the last week. A bus driver told me that crutches never get easier no matter how many times you use them. I've learned that people are basically helpful and mindful. They'll open doors. They'll ask how you are. They'll try to help you. If they like you, this helpful/mindful-ness seems to quadruple. If they're in a hurry, then not so much. I've also had to learn that it's easier and sometimes even entirely necessary to accept this helpfulness. Because it turns out that doors weighted to close on their own can be a real pain. Bathtubs can be particularly difficult to negotiate. There is no obvious way to go grocery shopping- I can't figure out how to hold a basket or how to push a cart and use crutches.
My jumping has become very useful. I find I can go short distances carrying items and hopping. This was particularly effective for negotiating stairs (Hop, hop, hopping down two flights has been some of my best work), for packing a car for a trip, and for transporting dinner and snacks from the kitchen to the couch. I also can be effective in a crawl. The problem is tile. I've considered investing in some kneepads, but I usually have to stand when I get to my destination anyway.
Once I find a rhythmn I do pretty well, but changing things up can be rough. Almost all of my near-falls have come when I've gone from sitting to standing, from crutching to hopping, or the reverse, or when I stop and try to restart. So far, I've either landed in a sitting position or jammed my shoulder into a wall or grabbed onto a handle before tumbling to the ground. I can imagine that one of these times I won't be so lucky.
In conclusion, don't sprain your ankle. And get to work on your plyometrics, they'll make life easier.
I'm fairly sick of being in my own head. When that happens I usually try to avoid this here dee-verrr-sion, but not today. Today I'm going to prattle on about sprains, overcoming hardship, and how much I miss the use of my foot. Or I'm going to write six more sentences, look angrily at the screen and push "Publish Post" and walk away. Only time will tell.
I've learned some interesting lessons in the last week. A bus driver told me that crutches never get easier no matter how many times you use them. I've learned that people are basically helpful and mindful. They'll open doors. They'll ask how you are. They'll try to help you. If they like you, this helpful/mindful-ness seems to quadruple. If they're in a hurry, then not so much. I've also had to learn that it's easier and sometimes even entirely necessary to accept this helpfulness. Because it turns out that doors weighted to close on their own can be a real pain. Bathtubs can be particularly difficult to negotiate. There is no obvious way to go grocery shopping- I can't figure out how to hold a basket or how to push a cart and use crutches.
My jumping has become very useful. I find I can go short distances carrying items and hopping. This was particularly effective for negotiating stairs (Hop, hop, hopping down two flights has been some of my best work), for packing a car for a trip, and for transporting dinner and snacks from the kitchen to the couch. I also can be effective in a crawl. The problem is tile. I've considered investing in some kneepads, but I usually have to stand when I get to my destination anyway.
Once I find a rhythmn I do pretty well, but changing things up can be rough. Almost all of my near-falls have come when I've gone from sitting to standing, from crutching to hopping, or the reverse, or when I stop and try to restart. So far, I've either landed in a sitting position or jammed my shoulder into a wall or grabbed onto a handle before tumbling to the ground. I can imagine that one of these times I won't be so lucky.
In conclusion, don't sprain your ankle. And get to work on your plyometrics, they'll make life easier.
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