Segways are the new cell phones

I've known from the very beginning that I don't like Segways. They are little motorized microcosms of all that's wrong with America. Segways are for self-involved, space-hogging, fat bums. They are the SUVs of the sidewalks. Segways are inappropriate, ineffective, and in-my-way. Which is why today I took particular delight in watching a Segway wreck not 5 feet in front of me. It was a Segway tour group, which if I start thinking about could really send me into a frenzy, so I won't. I'll focus on the crash. It was really more of a bump from behind, but it did send one driver? Segwayer? fat bum? off his ride and onto the ground. I tried not to laugh out loud, but then couldn't help shouting as I rode off, "Segways don't kill people. People kill people."


No one was injured. Sometimes exercise makes me lippy. Segway people might understand that if they tried it. Oooh. Burn.

Roads. Where we're going...

My car is like a time machine. Sit inside and be transported to the land of Rock Radio '84, Summer Radio '97, and the greatest mix tape to ever be jammed down in that little area on the door that should have the maps, yes I do mean- I can streak for miles and miles.

I sit in my car, the car in which I took my driver's test, the car in which I took my prom date, the car which canvassed the Midwest on a paintbrush called I-70, and I travel the highways and byways of now. Only with the tapes, and the growing smells, it starts to feel like another time. A moldier, oldier time. A time when the end of high school was closer than the ten year reunion.

My car is a time machine.

Yesterday, I traveled to the future. Despite my best efforts to cling to the moldy and the oldy, I went to the future. I know this because in the future gas prices are $3.19 per gallon.

The future looks grim.

The punchline is: these are new lights
That's why this joke sucks. The punchline isn't worth crap. I've drooled better punchlines. It's got no zip. It doesn't make any profound social commentary. It doesn't leave anyone slapping a knee saying, "It's funny, because it's true." Mostly they're just saying, "it's true." If any slapping is to be done, it's probably going to be directed at me. Save the knees!

I went into work today in a foul mood. We are talking I burrowed a hole beneath the dumps and when I got there I used a wooden spoon to dig a little further down. I'm pulling up to my cube, sack of dirty clothes and shoes on my back, not even looking around to acknowledge the thirty minutes of lateness trailing behind me. I'm plopping into my seat and firing up the slave-driving screen when I look around and think, "@%$#@$%. Is it just me or do these lights seem really bright?"

I actually felt a little better when I overheard a coworker talking about the eye-saving benefits of our new lights.

How awesome is this commercial?
I'm going outside to run in the rain, right now.

(in my Asics)

Blame it on the sweet tea
It just slipped out. I didn't mean anything by it. I was on the phone; the first work call I've taken in two days. We were talking. She had that syrupy Southern sweetness and I responded with my uncleaned dipstick of a voice. I made it through a sentence or two, but then with a wipe of the dipstick, a warming familiarity entered my tone and out came "ya'll." I couldn't stop it. She didn't notice, but my eyes grew wide. That's what I get for drinking Milo's sweet tea, bless my heart.

Breath mint binge
David checked into the clinic today after an apparent breath mint overdose. A source close to David reports that he had shown restraint in previous breath mint encounters, but lost control in his cubicle today. After finishing an entire package of mints, David was found sobbing next to the trash can. His breath and his tears both smelled minty fresh. David's publicist refused further comment.

Inflation hits. Three Musketeers snicker
A trip to the vending machine today revealed a shocking 15% increase in candy bar and nut prices. Amateur economists theorize that the prices are tied directly to the recent hike in gas prices, while conspiracy theorists cite anti-dime sentiment for the increase. The reason for the rise is unclear, but waist lines and wallets will not go unaffected.

"Salty cashews for $.75" snarled Carl. "Why, I remember when I could get more nuts than I could handle for half that." Patting his tummy, Carl claimed that Easter Monday was as good a day as any to start his new diet.

Others did not take the news with such optimism. Nancy, a self-proclaimed vending machine junkie, took to pounding on the glass and mumbling about her cost of living increase being only 2.7% this year. "They're trying to bleed me dry," she said.

Vending machine spokespeople said, "We will continue to provide coils full of morale-boosting goodness at the lowest possible prices."

Healthy eaters and snack bringers did not appreciate the plight of their starving coworkers. "I just bring some carrot sticks every day to work. I don't understand the fuss," said Mary.

An unidentified source in Mary's department said that no one really likes Mary.

Incomplete reflections on paper Ninja stars
Ninja stars were second grade boys' answer to the multi-fold notes of second grade girls. In theory they were deadly accurate weapons of the dark army. Their destruction potential was as beautiful as their intricate designs. When I made ninja stars, they were slightly pointed pieces of trash with so many colors that it looked like Crayola had a fight and everybody lost. I think that's why I stopped making ninja stars. What were girls writing about in second grade anyway?

Transitions are dead
I have 25 minutes to tell you the things you came here to find out. Well, let me tell you. I'm contemplating a return to tchoukball. It's not that I feel like tchoukball has really been missing in my life, but it seems like a better choice than golf. It's cheaper and more accessible and easier to give up. It's played by fewer people and so it has novelty going for it. Plus, it's less frustrating. And more active. I suppose I could try to find ways to occupy my time that didn't involve sport, but I could also learn to belly dance. Couldn't I?

I played a game of Ultimate the other night. I don't want to talk about the things that hurt. I want to talk about the dirty look I got from one woman. I realize I shouldn't take it personally, but that's not helping. A hammer went up and I was trying to help out on defense, so I made tracks to get to the disc. My chase was fruitless because gravity was bringing the disc down faster than I could move. I realized this at about the time this woman was dropping the disc and so instead of diving for the disc, I tried to dodge her. As I splayed to her left, parts of my body contacted parts of her. I stood up and apologized, but she glared. She glared the "you have no right to run into a me glare." She'd already dropped the disc by the time we bumped. I didn't mean to do it. These things happen. I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to figure out if I'd get the same glare from a man.

It's not like the first impression I have of my friend LL. A bunch of the dorm kids were playing Ultimate on the big green Astroturf. It was the usual gun and run, 11 v. 11, college-age kindergarteners chasing the flying plastic wherever it might fly kind of game. I was chasing a disc. LL was chasing a disc. It was coming down. She was out of position. I jumped up. She reared both elbows back, thrust her palms forward, and jammed them right into my chest. She pushed me. I was shocked. I was also knocked down. She got a glare from me, believe it. I didn't think much of her then. I don't like cheaters much, but I guess I forgave her because we're friends now. As horrible and obvious as that push was, I think I had to admire the fight in her. She was going to go down swinging. I can't reconcile that at the moment. I can't reconcile it with Spirit of the game either.

Please don't tell me that belly dancing is a sport.

In 45 minutes of play, I fell to the ground at least 3 times. Once I slipped. Once I "dove," although I was basically out of control and couldn't get where I needed to go without flying forward a bit. We've already discussed the splaying. 45 minutes. I wasn't even playing that well. And I was on cloud 9. I need more things in my life that do that. 3 minutes to go. When this comes out right, it's pretty close. Cloud 7, 7.5 at least. It just doesn't come easy. And it's fraught with so much risk of injury to R.

What did emo ever do to you?
Someone in my 'hood is unhappy with emo. I know this because a number of stop signs are now "STOP emo" signs. I didn't realize that emo was such a problem. Sometimes it's kind of depressing, but it seems to be a music genre that deserves to continue as much as any of the alternatives. Not only that, but I'm not sure altering street signs is the most effective method for altering people's opinions. There was a stop sign not too far from here that said, "STOP DRIVING" for a while. I kept watch and it doesn't seem that anybody abandoned cars. I think rather than whipping out the spray can every time this person or persons feels like maybe emo is cutting a little too close to reality, he/she/they should consider turning off the mp3/cd/tape player and just walking away. Unless, maybe they are talking about emo as an attitude rather than just a music genre. In which case, this campaign still makes no sense because the emo attitude really doesn't ooze through the streets of my suburbia.

Oh, and another thing, "Bump emo" makes no sense at all.

Autumn has me thinking
or Man I hope this isn't plagiarism

I've mostly given up bursting into the living room to announce that some aspect of blogging, "BLOWS MY MIND." Generally, I've stopped thinking in those terms. I don't track who is reading except by comment, anecdote, and the conversational misstep where I'm told, "I know. I read that already."

I pretend that people visit here don't/can't/won't pin me down because I'm vague. I don't have a list of links or an about page. They don't really know me. My vagueness, my borderline incoherence has turned a few potential readers off. When I think of my blog as a writing tool, I find that discouraging. Not terribly discouraging, because as a writing tool, it's given me confidence to write in other venues, for nanowrimo, for my family, for me. To sit down and write is no longer such a battle. To sit down and write coherently... another story.

Obviously, my blog is not just a writing tool. When Anne first encouraged me and I responded directly to that encouragement, it became at least in part about the readers. It became about reaching out to people I had lost touch with. I was taking some of my cues from the more experienced bloggers in those circles. These were not just any readers, but the people I knew or wanted to know because they interested me, or at least interested people I knew, or they updated enough to make my blog addiction feel justified. Very quickly this blog became about community. I think it came just in time too, because as everyone "grows up" and gets busier my email traffic has plummeted. So I keep in touch or just meet and hang out with this online presence. Is it a little creepy and voyeuristic? Sometimes, yes.

So as a reader, it's a little creepy and as a writer it's invasive. I'm sharing my thoughts with the general online public. That's a little weird, and not at all like the paranoid person I thought I would be. I mean I blog, but I don't have a SmartTrip card because I don't want "them" to know I'm on the Metro (I don't want to pay the fee either, but these are issues for another post.) How can I worry about Big Brother watching and then serve him breakfast every day?

Creepy, voyeuristic, invasive and Autumn brings to light yet another drawback- privacy. I don't live my life in a vacuum. ('Cause that would suck, of course.) I interact with people. They're part of the story. Recently, my aunt threatened to avoid me when I went to visit my family because she didn't want to end up as blog fodder. That didn't work so well, but what should I do with people? Do I leave them out? Give them aliases? How much is their privacy worth? What if they have a blog? Should I wait until they mention something, before I do? So many questions.

Then. Finally, it boils down to just one question- Is blogging worth it?

So far, the answer is yes. It gets me to write. It gets me to look, listen, feel, think more than I otherwise might. It keeps me in contact with wonderful people and allows me to build and grow relationships with them, even from afar. Heck, it provides an outlet for my incoherence. As long as I can answer yes to that one question, I'm going to keep at it. Hopefully, nobody will get seriously injured in the process.

Guess who has shoestrings
The grocery store!?!

$!%$@!#$%
I shrunk my favorite stocking cap. I was on this cleaning kick and that involved the last of the winter garments in the washer and the dryer. I'm sad. I'm mad. I just put it on, pulled it tight down over my ears and screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as I looked skyward. Dang it. That hat had years of wear left. Years! It had the pom-pom and the work memories. It was green and purple and fuzzy and warm. I washed it in cold water and dried it on the low setting. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Why?

-Why does UCLA look just like GMU against Florida?

-Why would I "build something together" with Lex Luthor?

-Why would you assume I'd think Hoosiers instead?

-Why does the good hurt in my legs make me so happy?

-And finally, why are Tom Wolfe books so freaking long?

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."

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?