You all can just...
There will be times in your life where you lose sight of what you want. You'll get distracted by what your friends think, or by the status quo. There will be a dream that pulses in the back of your mind, but it will get buried under a pile of dirty clothes. The challenge is to look inside, to find that dream and to hang on. You'll have to block out the voices that say, "No." and "You can't do that." and "Listen, biotch, there ain't no way you'll ever see my fine ##$ there." At that moment you'll have to take a second to wonder why one of your voices sounds so ghetto, but I urge you to get past that.
When you do, reach deep into your pockets, pull out $9.50, step up to the counter and go see Stick it! with me. I want it. You want it. Otherwise you can stick it.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
I know that I am late to the party,
but I promise to leave early.
I'm suddenly obsessed with myspace. I want to locate everyone I've ever known. If I had my yearbooks here, I might just leaf through them and use them as myspace fodder. I'm not sure what I'd do then. I don't know what to do with people when I find them. It's not that I plan on getting in touch with most of the people I find. It's just nice to know that they're alive and kicking, and quite likely sharing questionable information with all of the world. OOH! We've got that in common! But the worst part is those people lead to other people who may or may not be familiar. There's a whole world of people that people I once knew now know and/or pretend to know. I think there's a sociology project just waiting to happen. Or is it happening already?
Oh. Hello best friend's little brother. Are you sure you want the Internet to see the pictures of you drunk?
Oh. Hello prom date. I see you've cut your hair in the last 9 years.
Oh. Hi guy from track. Congrats on your move to Grenada.
Hey girl I can't quite remember. Didn't you used to run around with my sister?
Oh. Hi person I don't know. My gosh, do I come across that ridiculous?
Hey. My friend Chuck wasn't 46 or 16. Who are you?
Hmm. I wonder if we'll need a 10-year reunion. I can have one in the quiet of my room with your myspace soundtrack playing over my speakers. Gawrsh, I missed high school as much as I thought.
but I promise to leave early.
I'm suddenly obsessed with myspace. I want to locate everyone I've ever known. If I had my yearbooks here, I might just leaf through them and use them as myspace fodder. I'm not sure what I'd do then. I don't know what to do with people when I find them. It's not that I plan on getting in touch with most of the people I find. It's just nice to know that they're alive and kicking, and quite likely sharing questionable information with all of the world. OOH! We've got that in common! But the worst part is those people lead to other people who may or may not be familiar. There's a whole world of people that people I once knew now know and/or pretend to know. I think there's a sociology project just waiting to happen. Or is it happening already?
Oh. Hello best friend's little brother. Are you sure you want the Internet to see the pictures of you drunk?
Oh. Hello prom date. I see you've cut your hair in the last 9 years.
Oh. Hi guy from track. Congrats on your move to Grenada.
Hey girl I can't quite remember. Didn't you used to run around with my sister?
Oh. Hi person I don't know. My gosh, do I come across that ridiculous?
Hey. My friend Chuck wasn't 46 or 16. Who are you?
Hmm. I wonder if we'll need a 10-year reunion. I can have one in the quiet of my room with your myspace soundtrack playing over my speakers. Gawrsh, I missed high school as much as I thought.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Thomas Edison, I am not
A hat tournament is an opportunity to reinvent yourself. Names are put into a hat, or paper sack in this case, drawn out and assigned to teams. This randomly drawn group of people spends the day together playing Ultimate and trying to defeat other randomly drawn groups of people.
This is the second hat tournament of my life. All I recall of the first is that it nearly ended in death by heat exhaustion. It definitely ended in vomiting and a brutal car trip from Columbia to St. Louis. Thanks to good friends and whatever it is that keeps me going, I survived.
This past Monday was no ice cooler filled with beer. It was more like charcoal grill just getting warmed up. I drank plenty of fluids in anticipation. Back to the reinventing...
I took the field with new people that only knew a name and the fact that I was prepared to spend my day in the heat chasing plastic like they were. I was not quiet, or fiery, or even good to them. I don't know if I'm those things to other people. I just know that in other places I sometimes feel the weight of expectations. Here, I was Dave and I was going to play. There is something refreshing and invigorating about that. My team was filled with cutters. We aren't the people that pick up the disc and make the big hucks. We aren't the tall people bringing down those long throws. We were a bunch of 6 foot or less movers with ok throws, ok hops, and decent speed. There was one true handler on our team; so for much of the day I, like many others, shared in the handling responsibilites. I also wound sharing in the leadership responsibilities. That's a mantle I take reluctantly, but somehow I think my scoring and my personal battles on defense had elevated me to leader. There are some roles that apparently can't easily be turned down. With this came cheerleader, strategy-maker, and even a little of the dreaded rules expert.
At one point I raised my rules expert mantle a bit too high. In a heated battle, as I was chasing down a long throw with my defender on my heels, as I readied to leap into the air and grab a score, my defender jumped up and swiped the disc right out of the sky above me. There is a rule called the principle of verticality. It states that a person has a right to the space immediately above him/her. The disc had been immediately above me and so I called foul based on the rule. A discussion ensued and my opponent may have mentioned not so kindly how he had played defense above my head- he had "skyed" me. I argued that I had a right to my vertical space. I stared into his eyes refusing to back down. He stared back angrily. Then he said, "If that's true, how could anyone ever sky anyone?"
At that moment I could no longer keep the anger boiling inside of me. I felt a smile creep to the corners of my mouth. Here we were nearing the end of a gorgeous day playing a game. He had probably made a spectacular jump to steal my score away. Even if the principle of verticality supported* me, I wasn't sure it mattered. Those corners quickly became a full smile and I replied, "I have no idea. Turnover."
I felt good about the call. I worried a little that I'd backed down from confrontation, but my worry quickly dissipated when he checked the disc in and immediately threw it into the ground.
They went on to win and play for the championship. My team of cutters (I love how by the end of the day "a" team becomes "my" team) proudly took third place.
*The principle of verticality actually doesn't support my argument as he didn't contact me; he just jumped over me. The UPA rules (more rules!) state: "The Principle of Verticality: All players have the right to the space immediately above them. Thus, a player cannot prevent an opponent from making an attempt on a pass by reaching over an opponent. Should contact occur before the outcome of the play is determined, it is a foul on the player restricting the vertical space."
A hat tournament is an opportunity to reinvent yourself. Names are put into a hat, or paper sack in this case, drawn out and assigned to teams. This randomly drawn group of people spends the day together playing Ultimate and trying to defeat other randomly drawn groups of people.
This is the second hat tournament of my life. All I recall of the first is that it nearly ended in death by heat exhaustion. It definitely ended in vomiting and a brutal car trip from Columbia to St. Louis. Thanks to good friends and whatever it is that keeps me going, I survived.
This past Monday was no ice cooler filled with beer. It was more like charcoal grill just getting warmed up. I drank plenty of fluids in anticipation. Back to the reinventing...
I took the field with new people that only knew a name and the fact that I was prepared to spend my day in the heat chasing plastic like they were. I was not quiet, or fiery, or even good to them. I don't know if I'm those things to other people. I just know that in other places I sometimes feel the weight of expectations. Here, I was Dave and I was going to play. There is something refreshing and invigorating about that. My team was filled with cutters. We aren't the people that pick up the disc and make the big hucks. We aren't the tall people bringing down those long throws. We were a bunch of 6 foot or less movers with ok throws, ok hops, and decent speed. There was one true handler on our team; so for much of the day I, like many others, shared in the handling responsibilites. I also wound sharing in the leadership responsibilities. That's a mantle I take reluctantly, but somehow I think my scoring and my personal battles on defense had elevated me to leader. There are some roles that apparently can't easily be turned down. With this came cheerleader, strategy-maker, and even a little of the dreaded rules expert.
At one point I raised my rules expert mantle a bit too high. In a heated battle, as I was chasing down a long throw with my defender on my heels, as I readied to leap into the air and grab a score, my defender jumped up and swiped the disc right out of the sky above me. There is a rule called the principle of verticality. It states that a person has a right to the space immediately above him/her. The disc had been immediately above me and so I called foul based on the rule. A discussion ensued and my opponent may have mentioned not so kindly how he had played defense above my head- he had "skyed" me. I argued that I had a right to my vertical space. I stared into his eyes refusing to back down. He stared back angrily. Then he said, "If that's true, how could anyone ever sky anyone?"
At that moment I could no longer keep the anger boiling inside of me. I felt a smile creep to the corners of my mouth. Here we were nearing the end of a gorgeous day playing a game. He had probably made a spectacular jump to steal my score away. Even if the principle of verticality supported* me, I wasn't sure it mattered. Those corners quickly became a full smile and I replied, "I have no idea. Turnover."
I felt good about the call. I worried a little that I'd backed down from confrontation, but my worry quickly dissipated when he checked the disc in and immediately threw it into the ground.
They went on to win and play for the championship. My team of cutters (I love how by the end of the day "a" team becomes "my" team) proudly took third place.
*The principle of verticality actually doesn't support my argument as he didn't contact me; he just jumped over me. The UPA rules (more rules!) state: "The Principle of Verticality: All players have the right to the space immediately above them. Thus, a player cannot prevent an opponent from making an attempt on a pass by reaching over an opponent. Should contact occur before the outcome of the play is determined, it is a foul on the player restricting the vertical space."
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
plane with a view
A good window seat on the airplane is like a really slow ViewMaster. Thursday, I awoke from my nap as the plane neared St. Louis. I began scanning my home state looking for something familiar. I saw some lakes and rivers that I wasn't sure I could identify. I saw the road split around a warehouse in a place that might be Osage Beach. Eventually I was able to identify the Missouri river. It's big and brown, even from the sky. From the river, I knew I would eventually come to Interstate 70 (my favorite-est Interstate). The question on my mind and on the minds of those like-minded was whether I had passed Columbia. Near the river I spotted a large road, one with an interstate quality; it turned to the North and crossed the big brown Missouri in a rather familiar way. I followed the road through a town and soon my eyes arrived at the big "M". Much Merrymaking Mandated Mindfulness in my Utterly Unexpected excUrsison over Utopia, MU. Soaring by my alma mater at 600 mph, I was able to make out various stadiums and arenas, Stankowski field, the South Quad, and Jesse Hall. Old Missouri, Fair Missouri, you're really small from 15,000 feet.
The glory of my window seat was not just about being up on the top, upon the top of Columbia. No, no, my window seat had more fight. And a bully for that. As I arrived in St. Louis, my ViewMaster of alabaster came through again unveiling downtown and the gateway to the West in the east, the 630-foot tall arch. Cruising into Illinois to make a u-turn, I was able to view the arch from all sides.
To cap off my day, we punched through the clouds just after dark in DC and I stared right past the Washington monument, down the mall, and into the twinkling lights of the capitol. We squealed to a stop and the circle of tiny slides was complete.
A good window seat on the airplane is like a really slow ViewMaster. Thursday, I awoke from my nap as the plane neared St. Louis. I began scanning my home state looking for something familiar. I saw some lakes and rivers that I wasn't sure I could identify. I saw the road split around a warehouse in a place that might be Osage Beach. Eventually I was able to identify the Missouri river. It's big and brown, even from the sky. From the river, I knew I would eventually come to Interstate 70 (my favorite-est Interstate). The question on my mind and on the minds of those like-minded was whether I had passed Columbia. Near the river I spotted a large road, one with an interstate quality; it turned to the North and crossed the big brown Missouri in a rather familiar way. I followed the road through a town and soon my eyes arrived at the big "M". Much Merrymaking Mandated Mindfulness in my Utterly Unexpected excUrsison over Utopia, MU. Soaring by my alma mater at 600 mph, I was able to make out various stadiums and arenas, Stankowski field, the South Quad, and Jesse Hall. Old Missouri, Fair Missouri, you're really small from 15,000 feet.
The glory of my window seat was not just about being up on the top, upon the top of Columbia. No, no, my window seat had more fight. And a bully for that. As I arrived in St. Louis, my ViewMaster of alabaster came through again unveiling downtown and the gateway to the West in the east, the 630-foot tall arch. Cruising into Illinois to make a u-turn, I was able to view the arch from all sides.
To cap off my day, we punched through the clouds just after dark in DC and I stared right past the Washington monument, down the mall, and into the twinkling lights of the capitol. We squealed to a stop and the circle of tiny slides was complete.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
You can do what with stamps?
Denver- Desperately, I have searched for stamps. I wanted post card stamps, but I was ready to settle for good old fashioned first class stamps. I finally gathered up the courage to ask the convenience store guy.
"Any chance you've got stamps here?"
"We've got packs of two for $1.39."
My math is sometimes rusty and the prices of stamps have been kind of erratic the last few years, at least in so far as erratic is that steady march toward infinity pricing.
I eyed convenience store guy and repeated, "Two stamps for $1.39." I squinted a bit and half-mouthed, half-uttered, "but..."
He then launched a missive which included the following statements. "We can do that. King Soopers does not do that, but we can." He then closed with, "I actually discourage people from buying stamps here."
"Well, you've discouraged me," I said as I turned and walked out the door.
I marched on, not wanting to give up. I talked to Diana at the Family Dollar, but they didn't have stamps. I arrived at another gas station and patiently waited my turn. When I asked for stamps I was told almost apologetically, we have books of 6 for $3.99.
With the math firing on all cylinders, I quickly departed-- stampless.
Denver- Desperately, I have searched for stamps. I wanted post card stamps, but I was ready to settle for good old fashioned first class stamps. I finally gathered up the courage to ask the convenience store guy.
"Any chance you've got stamps here?"
"We've got packs of two for $1.39."
My math is sometimes rusty and the prices of stamps have been kind of erratic the last few years, at least in so far as erratic is that steady march toward infinity pricing.
I eyed convenience store guy and repeated, "Two stamps for $1.39." I squinted a bit and half-mouthed, half-uttered, "but..."
He then launched a missive which included the following statements. "We can do that. King Soopers does not do that, but we can." He then closed with, "I actually discourage people from buying stamps here."
"Well, you've discouraged me," I said as I turned and walked out the door.
I marched on, not wanting to give up. I talked to Diana at the Family Dollar, but they didn't have stamps. I arrived at another gas station and patiently waited my turn. When I asked for stamps I was told almost apologetically, we have books of 6 for $3.99.
With the math firing on all cylinders, I quickly departed-- stampless.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Self-awareness and TV on DVD don't mix
My neighbor kindly bought every season of Gilmore Girls and then let me borrow them. I already own seasons one and two, so I've worked my way through three and into four in the last week. All was well and good through most of three. Laughs, fast-talking, pop culture references, the vaguely familiar but mostly greeting card-esque heartfelt moments. Then Rory graduated from high school and went to Yale. Now I find myself contemplating the potential of my daily existence as it compares to the high school senior and college freshman. I'm awed by how unaware I was at that time. I'm amazed at how much I can't remember, already. Will I look back at this time and feel the same way? Do I need more education for that to happen? Is this standing still? Or is this tweaking "not unhappy" until we can reach happy? Is happy something to reach or is it more something to continuously stretch for and occasionally rub up against? Do I need to apply my philosophy in sports to the rest of my life? Is my sports philosophy too masochistic for day to day existence? Have I already applied it?
And finally, how many Nutter Butters is too many Nutter Butters?
My neighbor kindly bought every season of Gilmore Girls and then let me borrow them. I already own seasons one and two, so I've worked my way through three and into four in the last week. All was well and good through most of three. Laughs, fast-talking, pop culture references, the vaguely familiar but mostly greeting card-esque heartfelt moments. Then Rory graduated from high school and went to Yale. Now I find myself contemplating the potential of my daily existence as it compares to the high school senior and college freshman. I'm awed by how unaware I was at that time. I'm amazed at how much I can't remember, already. Will I look back at this time and feel the same way? Do I need more education for that to happen? Is this standing still? Or is this tweaking "not unhappy" until we can reach happy? Is happy something to reach or is it more something to continuously stretch for and occasionally rub up against? Do I need to apply my philosophy in sports to the rest of my life? Is my sports philosophy too masochistic for day to day existence? Have I already applied it?
And finally, how many Nutter Butters is too many Nutter Butters?
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Adding injury to injury
My left ankle, the one that's caused me so much trouble this year, was already reinforced by sturdy slabs of plastic. This weekend's tournament would be a big test for the plastic and for my recovery. In the first game, we lost a man to an injury and I bummed support for my other ankle which must have been compensating. Other than a forearm to my jaw, the first game provided only minor aches and pains all around. I would not be so fortunate in the second game. Late in the first half, my right calf cramped up. I was left writhing on the field. After an infusion of bananas and Gatorade, I was able to return to the game. I played for a while, even grabbing a Callahan (defensive score) at one point. Then my left calf decided to get in on the cramping. More writhing ensued. We lost the second game and I went on to play a few points in the third game. My right hamstring decided to join in on the fun. I was running out of body parts to cramp.
I thought I was done for the day, but I really didn't want to be. My team needed me. We were playing a fresh young team with lots of subs. At this point, we had no male subs. I paced the sidelines, massaged my legs, drank the juice and crammed bananas and salty chips past my sore jaw. The team was holding off the opponent, but it wasn't easy. Every so often, I'd try a little jog to see how I was feeling. There wasn't much improvement. I was jogging down the sideline just before halftime. I jogged past a large dog. I'd passed him at least twice before, but this time he jumped up and bit me in the side. Other than the terror I initially felt at having a 100 pound beast lunging at my unformed love handles, it just stung a little. Still, I felt a little strange, because after all, A DOG BIT ME!?!
I couldn't play. I had teeth marks on my side. My team was hanging on for dear life. I felt bad. Powerless. Bitten. A few more points went by. I jogged lightly in the other direction and noticed that my leg pain had gone away. Just as a test, I hopped up a little. No twinging in the calves. I sped up. I felt fine. On the next point I announced that I was good for a point or two if anyone needed a rest. My teammates were happy to take me up on the offer. I scored a few, made some defensive plays and we wrapped up the victory. In the vein of spiderman, perhaps the bite had given me superpowers.
Or rabies.
My left ankle, the one that's caused me so much trouble this year, was already reinforced by sturdy slabs of plastic. This weekend's tournament would be a big test for the plastic and for my recovery. In the first game, we lost a man to an injury and I bummed support for my other ankle which must have been compensating. Other than a forearm to my jaw, the first game provided only minor aches and pains all around. I would not be so fortunate in the second game. Late in the first half, my right calf cramped up. I was left writhing on the field. After an infusion of bananas and Gatorade, I was able to return to the game. I played for a while, even grabbing a Callahan (defensive score) at one point. Then my left calf decided to get in on the cramping. More writhing ensued. We lost the second game and I went on to play a few points in the third game. My right hamstring decided to join in on the fun. I was running out of body parts to cramp.
I thought I was done for the day, but I really didn't want to be. My team needed me. We were playing a fresh young team with lots of subs. At this point, we had no male subs. I paced the sidelines, massaged my legs, drank the juice and crammed bananas and salty chips past my sore jaw. The team was holding off the opponent, but it wasn't easy. Every so often, I'd try a little jog to see how I was feeling. There wasn't much improvement. I was jogging down the sideline just before halftime. I jogged past a large dog. I'd passed him at least twice before, but this time he jumped up and bit me in the side. Other than the terror I initially felt at having a 100 pound beast lunging at my unformed love handles, it just stung a little. Still, I felt a little strange, because after all, A DOG BIT ME!?!
I couldn't play. I had teeth marks on my side. My team was hanging on for dear life. I felt bad. Powerless. Bitten. A few more points went by. I jogged lightly in the other direction and noticed that my leg pain had gone away. Just as a test, I hopped up a little. No twinging in the calves. I sped up. I felt fine. On the next point I announced that I was good for a point or two if anyone needed a rest. My teammates were happy to take me up on the offer. I scored a few, made some defensive plays and we wrapped up the victory. In the vein of spiderman, perhaps the bite had given me superpowers.
Or rabies.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
The breeze doesn't blow through shuttered windows
"I'm bored," I told my mom between reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. There was a time she would have made me homemade Play-dough or set me up with scissors and markers in an attempt to free the artist in me.
Some years later she would have said, "Work on your scrapbook," or "Clean your room." By then her suggestions would have irked me even though I didn't know what "irked" meant.
And now we've come to this. "You'll find something to do," she told me. I've never considered myself much of an entertainer when the audience is me. For a while, I could pick on my little sister, but I think I may have exhausted that option in the late teens. It can still be worth a kick, but long-distance sibling war lacks satisfaction. It's a bit like vending machine chocolate donuts. Put the quarters in, punch in the numbers. The possibility is there, but the taste is off. It's just not as fresh as it should be.
What to do? What to do?
Then things just started happening. I don't know what changed. I was open to one possibility and then along came another. Suddenly, I'm in the midst of a good book The Handmaid's Tale, and my favorite TV show on DVD is backlogged on the coffee table. There are bikes to ride, frisbees to throw, avenues to explore, potential to consider, friends to meet, and chicken salad to eat. Maybe it was the chicken salad. Suddenly the watch is ticking (or is that the clock in the living room?) a little louder. There's so much to do. Where will I find the time?
Here. YOU take the donuts. I'll take the change.
"I'm bored," I told my mom between reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. There was a time she would have made me homemade Play-dough or set me up with scissors and markers in an attempt to free the artist in me.
Some years later she would have said, "Work on your scrapbook," or "Clean your room." By then her suggestions would have irked me even though I didn't know what "irked" meant.
And now we've come to this. "You'll find something to do," she told me. I've never considered myself much of an entertainer when the audience is me. For a while, I could pick on my little sister, but I think I may have exhausted that option in the late teens. It can still be worth a kick, but long-distance sibling war lacks satisfaction. It's a bit like vending machine chocolate donuts. Put the quarters in, punch in the numbers. The possibility is there, but the taste is off. It's just not as fresh as it should be.
What to do? What to do?
Then things just started happening. I don't know what changed. I was open to one possibility and then along came another. Suddenly, I'm in the midst of a good book The Handmaid's Tale, and my favorite TV show on DVD is backlogged on the coffee table. There are bikes to ride, frisbees to throw, avenues to explore, potential to consider, friends to meet, and chicken salad to eat. Maybe it was the chicken salad. Suddenly the watch is ticking (or is that the clock in the living room?) a little louder. There's so much to do. Where will I find the time?
Here. YOU take the donuts. I'll take the change.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Internet, I have but two things to add*
1. I don't think the developers in this story get it. Every one of 'em keeps talking about the money that he could have made. Maybe the guy wanted money, but since they couldn't get his side, I'm going to pretend he just wanted to follow through with a pizza kitchen dream or just wanted to be stubborn to piss off some developers. It's fun that way. And, it's a place that's going to have some real character.
2. No pants day is tomorrow. Celebrate!
*at the moment
1. I don't think the developers in this story get it. Every one of 'em keeps talking about the money that he could have made. Maybe the guy wanted money, but since they couldn't get his side, I'm going to pretend he just wanted to follow through with a pizza kitchen dream or just wanted to be stubborn to piss off some developers. It's fun that way. And, it's a place that's going to have some real character.
2. No pants day is tomorrow. Celebrate!
*at the moment
Monday, May 01, 2006
Hey Gatorade, it's in me.
After my first year of high school cross country, I took the winter off. I came back for track season and was unable to replicate the success I had in the fall. When track season ended, I decided not to make that mistake again. I have not gone a whole winter without running since then.
The ankle sprain set me back for most of February, March, and April. GEEZ. It didn't seem quite that bad until I wrote it down. I went nearly three months with minimal exercise- the new winter of my discontent.
Saturday, I played Ultimate. The ankle performed better than expected, but my body revolted. By halftime I was spent. I know this because my lunch popped up and told me so. Repeatedly. I don't think that's ever happened to me in the first game of the day. It was rather unpleasant. By Sunday afternoon, I was making another decision. I decided to come roaring back. I know it's going to take some time, but winter is over.
After my first year of high school cross country, I took the winter off. I came back for track season and was unable to replicate the success I had in the fall. When track season ended, I decided not to make that mistake again. I have not gone a whole winter without running since then.
The ankle sprain set me back for most of February, March, and April. GEEZ. It didn't seem quite that bad until I wrote it down. I went nearly three months with minimal exercise- the new winter of my discontent.
Saturday, I played Ultimate. The ankle performed better than expected, but my body revolted. By halftime I was spent. I know this because my lunch popped up and told me so. Repeatedly. I don't think that's ever happened to me in the first game of the day. It was rather unpleasant. By Sunday afternoon, I was making another decision. I decided to come roaring back. I know it's going to take some time, but winter is over.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
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.
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 $3.19 per gallon.
The future looks grim.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The punchline is: these are new lights
That's why this joke sucks. The punchline isn't worth crap. I've drooled better punchlines. It's got no zip. It doesn't make any profound social commentary. It doesn't leave anyone slapping a knee saying, "It's funny, because it's true." Mostly they're just saying, "it's true." If any slapping is to be done, it's probably going to be directed at me. Save the knees!
I went into work today in a foul mood. We are talking I burrowed a hole beneath the dumps and when I got there I used a wooden spoon to dig a little further down. I'm pulling up to my cube, sack of dirty clothes and shoes on my back, not even looking around to acknowledge the thirty minutes of lateness trailing behind me. I'm plopping into my seat and firing up the slave-driving screen when I look around and think, "@%$#@$%. Is it just me or do these lights seem really bright?"
I actually felt a little better when I overheard a coworker talking about the eye-saving benefits of our new lights.
That's why this joke sucks. The punchline isn't worth crap. I've drooled better punchlines. It's got no zip. It doesn't make any profound social commentary. It doesn't leave anyone slapping a knee saying, "It's funny, because it's true." Mostly they're just saying, "it's true." If any slapping is to be done, it's probably going to be directed at me. Save the knees!
I went into work today in a foul mood. We are talking I burrowed a hole beneath the dumps and when I got there I used a wooden spoon to dig a little further down. I'm pulling up to my cube, sack of dirty clothes and shoes on my back, not even looking around to acknowledge the thirty minutes of lateness trailing behind me. I'm plopping into my seat and firing up the slave-driving screen when I look around and think, "@%$#@$%. 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.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, April 17, 2006
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?
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?
Thursday, April 13, 2006
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.
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.
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