Searching for this season's woman of substance?

With Veronica Mars and the Gilmore Girls relegated to DVDs, it appears I'm searching for new tv women to fill a void. Tonight Bionic Woman faced off against Gossip Girl. On the surface, the edge would seem to go to the bionic one. She's strong and can leap from building to building, plus I have vague childhood memories of another bionic woman or maybe it was a six-million dollar man. There were definitely cool sound effects. The sound effects have gone away; there's no money in sound effects. The money is at the track, the soundtrack. I couldn't be bothered with more than a few minutes of the Bionic Woman at a time. It was dark. The lead was not very attractive and I have the sense that the show should have kept with the current trend of turning old tv shows into movies. It worked for Dukes of Hazzard. The Bionic one didn't really get a fair shake, as I was busy watching that girl from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Pants connections to Alexis Bledel aside, there's something about this show that isn't quite horrible. Gossip Girl is narrated by Kristen Bell of Veronica Mars fame. Listening to Kristen Bell is not the same as watching her, but then watching a show by the creator of the O.C. is also not the same as watching a show by Rob Thomas. There's no sound effects in this one either, although we do get some class warfare, some high-schoolers trying to fit in and more than our fair share of forced (as in crammed down our throats) intrigue. Also, The Bravery made an appearance on the soundtrack which was fun. (Ooh. They're playing here on Halloween.) There were fewer drinks and sex this week than last, but the world isn't light, even if what's her face's hair is. Finally, the potential villain, if rich high school boys without twirlable mustaches can achieve villain status, was drinking a scotch. That's kind of a draw. Though I do wonder why CW shows tend to portray more scotch drinkers than any other network. Is that in their mission statement?

I'm not calling this one completely in favor of Gossip Girl yet, it is the CW after all, but I'd say Gossip is poised to take Bionic based on early returns.

Yes!
It appears that NBC's Journeyman will tackle the big questions in time travel, most importantly, if you travel back in time and end up making out with your super-hot ex-girlfriend is it cheating because at that time she was actually your girlfriend?

Tune in next week...

Reality bites
I publicly admitted today that my 2007 Club Ultimate season was over. It's unclear whether it really began. I've been injured so long that my teammates probably wouldn't recognize me anyway. I haven't been on the field in months. I'd accepted personally some time ago that my comeback was not for this year, but I'd remained silent hoping for a miracle.

Every week, I get a little closer. I go whole days now without hurting. I sometimes have the urge to break into a run and I believe I could do it pain-free, at least for a little bit. I'm trying to heal completely so that when I do come back, I come back whole and ferociously. Many days both of those parts seem like pie-in-the-sky dreams. I've nearly adjusted to a life where playing Ultimate is not the centerpiece. Nearly adjusted may be a little strong, but I at least understand that it might be possible, if undesirable.

To admit this setback was sad for me and it makes my psoas twinge.

Dear Big Brother

Here's the key to my house. Come on in. Ransack that. Here's the music I'm listening to, the books I'm reading, the thoughts I'm thinking, the friends I have (or at least the friends who also welcome you and yours and me). It's all here- where I went to school, what I had for breakfast, the amount of space between my toes.

That's right, I joined facebook. It's possible that I'm about to become a parasocial butterfly. I will flit all over the place without ever leaving the seat that I stole from my roommate. Am I ok with this? I don't know, but at least I get to see some photos and videos that I was missing. I'm also exploring a whole world that I was only vaguely aware was in existence. The kids these days are terrifying, but man they take a lot of pictures. I'm still having a bit of trouble with facebook. I feel a bit like the grandparent and the VCR. It just isn't as intuitive as I thought it would be for some reason. I'm sure I'll get it figured out, so that I can soon paste the remaining pieces of my soul online. In the meantime, I need to find a way to consolidate my online presence. It's getting too spread out. I can't remember which email addresses go where and who signs in to what selling place how. I need a computer just to track my computer use.

If I sound a little frantic, it's because I think I may have just gone to stuck my toe in the fountain of the Internet and I ended up falling in. My clothes are soaked. My unmentionables are wet (are there any unmentionables left?). I'm not exactly sure where the nearest towel is located, but I'm willing to extend a metaphor...

In conclusion, I'm going to steal a transition from Frankie Two Toes, and say that I had some free acupuncture on Sunday. It was trippy. That belongs in another post.

Good day, sirs. Enjoy my soul and all of its pieces.

"Parasocial" behavior and the potential for the anti- of such

The interesting and entertaining storyRules of Thumb: Love in the Age of Texting introduced me to the term parasocial, supposedly those who believe that constant virtual contact is more than just pretend intimacy. If I'm allowed to interpret recklessly and without the argument that immediately bubbles up regarding the gray areas between virtual and actual intimacy, I do believe I've been a bit anti-parasocial in the last few weeks. There's really no telling what effect that has had on either of us.

I'm only shedding this anti-parasocialism because the washingtonpost.com story overlaps with thoughts of my own from Friday night. I live in a very different world. I recognize many of my friends, or mostly Daimon and Alan, have been telling me this for some time. I noticed this difference acutely on a Metro ride Friday night. My friend and seatmate held an entire conversation, including making plans for when he got off the train in a series of text messages. He found out where to meet, when to meet, who would be there, and even extended an invitation to another friend in a matter of moments. I have never done that. If I'd been alone, I would have gone all the way home and then been annoyed to even have to consider returning to the Metro to prolong my evening.

A friendship with me now requires an almost unheard of and/or unremembered level of advanced planning and patience. If I'm late somewhere those meeting me will know strictly by my absence. If we don't agree on a place to meet or don't understand one another, the only way our paths will cross is by force of will and dumb luck. I see a certain amount of beauty in my built-in requirement for patience (not to mention a certain amount of irony), but knowing how prevalent technology is in everyone's pocket makes me see how my resistance could be considered slightly less than charming. Thanks to those that indulge me and to those who don't, GR2BR.

An error in judgment

I've gone and done it. I was searching for something to liven up my life. I'd recently enjoyed some Virgil's root beer. I was in that very aisle looking for something to drink. I considered some cream soda. I thought about some other root beers. I could have had a root beer showdown in my mouth, but I declined. I looked at the izze with their mod box design (is that mod?) and strange name. I do like that stylized flower/asterisk thingy they've got going on, but I've done izze before and enjoyed it. I was looking for liven, not retread. As I stood in the aisle and contemplated my options I spied Java pop. It's got bubbles on the label and promises of organic goodness. I'd enjoyed a Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino earlier in the day, so coffee was on my good side. I decided Vanilla Coffee soda was the way to liven.

Oh boy. I took a wrong turn near liven and ended up near Yucktown. It's organic all right. It tastes a little like liquid dirt mixed with liquid grass and a pinch of coffee bean and vanilla mixed right in. It's kind of not that good, like maybe my morning coffee waited all day to chill and then vomitted cream soda. Want a bottle?

The punchline to a really sad joke
How depressed are you?
I'm so depressed that yesterday I dressed the part. I was in a suit and sporting an old fedora and I just kept picturing myself in black and white. You know, because the Great Depression took place in black and white. The pictures prove it.

How sad?
Dear 25%,
Please read. It's worth it.

At least we aren't Orioles
The Rangers put up 30 runs against the Orioles in the first game of a doubleheader. Then they beat them again. I bet it was fun to be a Rangers fan on Thursday.

Just a block up from Rock Bottom Lane
or Oh. The Melodrama.

I'm searching for a house just a block from Rock Bottom Lane. If I play my cards right, it might be on the corner of Suck Ave. and Pull it Together Road. That house has a nice view in both directions. The house would need to have cable because I like to curl up in the fetal position and watch Hillary Duff in her modern day Cinderella. I'm looking to rent rather than buy because I've spent a large chunk of my money on the white stuff. We're talking Vanilla Bean ice cream. There's nothing like licking melted ice cream from a moustache. Actually, licking ice cream off of a small furry dog is probably pretty similar, but that sounds gross.

The place really only needs one room and a bathroom. I don't plan to do a lot of moving around. I could drag myself to a hot plate or the freezer every now and then. A small space for the in, a hole for the out. Other than that, I only need enough room to stretch out and dry my pit-stained t-shirts.

I'm bummed without Ultimate. My patience is all used up and there wasn't that much to begin with.

Fine. So it could be worse.

The competitive reader inside me

Goodreads.com makes me feel a bit like I'm in a summer reading program. It's the online version of "Dive into a sea of reading" where every book gets my chain a paper fish and every 10 books gets me a star, starfish that is. It's a place where I can walk in and compare myself to the other readers around.
My fish chain is longer than that kid's.
I bet she only reads short books.
Then seeing the scowl on my face, I can almost hear my mom remind me that reading is fun. It's just important to read, not how much I read.

Easy for you to say, Mom, you don't have a fish in the race.

The critic inside of me
Goodreads.com also lets me wield a five-star rating system like I'm a cross between AAA, Good Housekeeping, and J.D Power & Associates. My average rating is lower than all my friends. At first I thought I was a tough critic, but then I realized they didn't read A Polemic against Love or The Ballad of the Whisky Robber. Maybe I'm not so tough.

The online social networker inside of me
It's online making friends! This is the beginning of the end. Facebook and myspace are just a click away.

Please stop looking inside of me.
I'm actually very pleased with goodreads.com. I'm not sure why it doesn't sound that way.

Run to the store/ Dance in the aisle

For months that seemed much longer, I have been unable to run to the store. I haven't gone hungry. I still make just as many stops at my local grocery, but I have not been able to lift my legs and place them repeatedly and relatively rapidly along the sidewalks that lead to this place or any other. Saturday, that changed. The sun shone a little brighter. The trees whispered happy things in my ears. I moved quickly to the store, afraid to race there, but stretching out my legs just a little. The soreness that has plagued me lurked beneath the surface, but remained at bay.

My return trip brought a hint of tightness, and so the rejoicing was a quiet sort. A celebration of progress, hopes, and things yet to come.

I'm spent

Jen hasn't written back, but it's ok because I've been busy. Tuesday night I went to perform trivia at some bar. It's a good thing that trivia isn't like karaoke; this way people didn't have to hear me mess things up in a high-pitched squeal. Amongst my perspiration, the beer, and a fading memory, I was able to contribute at least 2 points to my team's 60-something. I think I cost us at least one. I probably netted zero. Maybe this is the reason I turned jock long ago. And after all these years of thinking it was an accident.

Last night I went to see the fightin' Orioles. They aren't that fightin', but it's ok because my ride was cheering for the Rhyme of the ancient Mariners. I'd barely settled into my seat, Boog's BBQ still on my breath, when the Mariners put one over the fence not 100 feet from where I sat. The center fielder probably should have tried to make a play on the ball since it cleared the wall by six inches. The right field fans expressed this sentiment to him in the most eloquent profanity-laden manner. The rest of the game is a bit of a blur. It was like 38 degrees on the good scale. That's hot. The Mariners won. The ballpark was well-made. Sturdy or so I'm led to believe. This is the point in my description where I have to decide if the emphasis is going to be on attempting comedy or attempting an honest description of the way I felt in the heat as I watched our nation's former pastime before we became angrier and more violent.

Apparently I chose political statment. I didn't even know that was an option.

Now, I launder.

Dear Jen
(of NBC's reality series Age of Love),

I know that you were trying to win the affections of a man 18 years your junior, not just any man either, the tennis star Mark Philapoulousasasas I won't spell his name, you know it. I just wanted to say that despite your covered-in-darkness massage (MASS-age according to the Aussie boy) and the on-air snogging that everyone in this show partook in, I thought you did a bang-up job. I can say this with some authority because I was able to watch all of the episodes of Age of Love. Some people might be ashamed of this fact, but when NBC pitted 40 vs. 20 I knew almost instantly that I was a fan of yours. Your hotness defied age and you seemed pretty cool too. And really, wasn't that the point of this whole experiement?

Sometimes, during the commercials I would picture our lives together. I pictured our 50th wedding anniversary. By then, I'd learned over and over again that age really didn't matter. Even at 98, your smile still melted my heart and you still looked great in motorcycle chaps. As I stood next to our cake, a tiny tear formed in my eye as our adopted Guatamalan daughter, Jane, 38, hugged her 75-year old step-brother. Or was she holding him up? Regardless, he and I had shared some good times, too. Those years where he lived with us are some that I'll cherish forever. I know you grew tired of our thirty-something antics, but we grew out of them as he entered his fifties and you and I were able to appreciate an empty nest. You always said that 70 was the new 50. Thank goodness for early retirement.

The commercials would end and I would be plunged back into reality tv, which as we all learned long ago is different than reality. It hurt me to see you with another man, but then I realized that you'd been with another man when I was born. That took away some of the heartache. It was hard to see the chemistry you shared with Mark, but when the credits roll, I just want you to be happy. If not with me, I hope you find it with someone, no matter his age. Good luck, Jen. Thank you for teaching me that hotness and coolness can come at any age at least with proper make-up and editing.

Ignore that last part. That's the heartache talking.

With (ageless) love,
Dave

The problem with syndication

It was just 30 minutes ago when young Rachel Green was getting her first real job. The world was hers for the taking. Happiness abounded. Then just like that, in the blink of a plotline, Rachel and Ross were on a break. U2 played loudly in the background. Hearts were breaking all across non high-definition television sets. The ups. The downs. It's almost too much for one man to weather.

I'll be brave.

Must look awesome

This story starts and ends in 'stache. When a weekend on the Jersey shore playing Ultimate began to take shape, my friend Alan made a call far and wide for the team to wear our finest in mustachery. For my friends this generally meant some form of facial sacrifice. It meant turning to 1970s cop shows, pre-industrial Japan, and Joe Dirt for inspiration. For me, it merely meant maintaining the prickly hair that I had cultivated over the past four years. As the weekend approached, pressure began to mount to turn my bearded look into one that emphasized the mustache. Knowing that my playing time would be limited I debated the merits of re-releasing my chin to the outside world. After some deliberation, I decided to free my face from a large portion of the hair that had taken up residence there. It proved not to be so simple. These follicles were like tiny roommates, tiny friends, tiny armed guards for my face. And there are many styles of mustache to choose from. With clippers in hand, I froze.

There's an art to facial hair and so to help make my decision I called on an artist. Matt had been there in the earliest days as I had struggled to connect the chin hairs with the upper lip hairs into pseudo-beatnick glory- the goatee. He'd been there when I'd come down from the mountains sporting six months of solid growth. I'd seen him transition from goatee to chin strap and back again. Our beards had grown together, although not in a weird blond hair twisting with brown kind of way, more like we'd both had facial hair at the same time. Now, I turned to him in my time of need. Where should I take this art, this mustache? I asked of him like a man who had gone to visit the Dalai Lama. Like a buddhist monk, his answer took the form of guidance and lead my heart and mind where it needed to be.

We reached the conclusion, and the journey took us to the fu manchu. It sounds like somewhere a monk might send me. Fu Manchu, just off the coast of the razor by way of clipper. The transformation was quick and save the buzzing of the clippers, silent. I did not wake up the next morning a changed man. I was still me, although my reflection looked quite a bit like a truck driver.

I took the essence of me with my truck driver face and headed to work where I promptly forgot the state of my face. My coworkers are very nice people and their remarks tended toward shock without rudeness. I appreciated it and was only reminded of my transformation when my fingers struck chin. My chin may be many things, but twirlable it is not.

Having survived a shortened workday, I prepared to unveil my new look to Alan and those that I would share my weekend with. Alan reacted with amusement and thrill. I felt my mission was accomplished. For the most part, although my look had changed, I felt the same. As the weekend wore on, some combination of boardwalk, deep-fried Oreos, and fu manchu worked like the sand in my shoe to free a little of the skeeviness inside of me. I could blame the mustache or New Jersey, but I have come to believe there's a little skeeve inside of each of us. With meditation and an outdoor shower, I was able to tame the skeevy beast within and return to mastery of myself and my fu manchu. The culmination of this mastery may have been in a diner just across the street from the oldest living oak. Uncle Rico, a samurai called Sunday Night Special, and me, your Thurman Munson look-alike, were halfway through dinner; The Platters were crooning on our tableside jukebox when we realized that each of us looked ridiculeautiful (that rare combination of ridiculous and beautiful) and our waitress had not reacted in the slightest. We had made our peace with the 'stache.

A day in the life of superstars and me

There are certain awesome moments in life. Moments that I don't just want blog about, but actually want to remember forever, or a reasonable approximation thereof. Today, I had such a moment. Today's moment, as many moments on this blog, is about a girl, a woman really. The moment is really a movement, or more accurately the economy of movement. The moment, the movement, involved me standing less than 30 feet from a tennis racket wielded by one of the winningest tennis players around, Martina Navratilova. I don't believe I'm one to get particularly star struck, that affliction which renders one a bit of a blubbering fool in front of the famous. I don't have opportunity to test this theory often, but I'd already stepped up to a microphone and asked Martina how she dealt with injury. Nerve-wracking certainly, but more so because I told a thousand people that my stomach hurt rather than the fact that one of them was a 20-time winner at Wimbledon. Martina seemed very affable and down-to-earth when she spoke.

The alluded to moment though struck me and made me into a blubbering fool. As I looked on, Ms. Navratilova volleyed soft faux-tennis balls with an amateur- a competitive amateur and coach, but an amateur none-the-less. Martina hit the ball as she talked about the importance of racket placement. Her racket moved almost impercectibly and at a perfect angle to return the faux-balls. The difference between how she used her racket and how the amatuer used hers was like the difference between a tornado and its eye. On a much smaller scale, but her racket head remained placed perfectly, whether it was behind her back, between her legs or as a simple forehand. There are hundreds and thousands who have observed Martina up close and on the court. They've seen this movement combined with the other skills that made her great, but I consider it an honor to have witnessed this tiny moment and these simple movements which she has undertaken probably millions of times.

I feel I have not done justice to the moment. So with a bit of a stretch let me contrast it to the time I nearly danced with Tina Turner.

It was lunch time and I was eating my smaller portion. I had just shared an hour with a champion and a thousand others, when the emcee had me put my hands together for Tina Turner. Many of us leapt from our seats and headed to the stage as hits like Proud Mary and Rollin' on the River were belted in our general direction. There was some girlish screaming, not from me of course. I am not a big Tina Turner fan, but the day suddenly seemed full of possibility. During an early song of the performance, I started to scrutinize Ms. Turner. She certainly sounded right, but her face didn't look quite right. Not being a big fan, I realized that her age and my poor memory might be causing doubt where it did not belong. As the song ended, the test occurred to me. I glanced down from her face to her legs. I don't know much about Tina Turner, but I know she's got some fantastic gams. This performer did not. Either this was an imposter or the famous legs had taken a turn for the worse. And by turn I mean they exited the highway of "Wow" at the Truckstop called "ughn". I returned to my seat and announced my opinion- not Tina. Those more prone to proclamations declared, "I know Tina and she is no Tina."

Despite these proclamations, the power of a crowd is mighty. Important people, people who should know, declared she was the real deal. The crowd remained around the stage and frankly, the imposter was giving a good performance. She brought a group of guys up on stage, one I was nearly pushed into, who took to shaking various things. This performer made an awkward statement about Ike which seemed like it was in bad taste for an impersonater... this brought back a few bits of doubt on the other side. Maybe it was her? Others were certain she was the real deal. One looked me in the eye and said, "her tone and pitch are right. Her movements are right and her eyes are right. It's her."

"But the legs?" I squealed, and he could not answer.

One perfect moment on a champion's racket, and one pretty good imposter with legs that betrayed her (or I heard rumors of him). Not a bad brush with the famous and nearly famous.

Points of order and beyond

Point the first: My new definition of success states that when a bike tire goes flat, success is being able to change bikes.

Remember where George Washington lived? I biked there on Saturday on a bit of a whim. Quite pleasant, really. The food court is a little overpriced, but I'm sure the money goes to a good cause, like making Washington's pockets even deeper. Come on, the man is on the dollar bill and even the rappers know it's all about him. Or was it Franklin? Regardless, the ride was a good one. Downhill both ways; or at least rolling enough to make me think that.

Point the second: Harry Potter fans are kind of kooky, but fun. Read about the second largest celebration in the statesat the Gig. I ducked out early because I like to support J.K.'s retirement from afar and read other people's books. To expand on that point secondhand underwear is no good, but secondhand Potter novels are excellent. I will not continue except to point you to this Washington Post article which has pointed me to some other interesting reading and made an excellent observation about how part of the charm of Potter may be in the sense of community. The writer didn't say it like that, instead phrasing it more that the appeal was in being in synch with the world due to mass media hysteria, but I think it further supports an idea that I keep coming back to-- people are seeking community. If that means standing in line for a book at midnight, that's not so bad. It just reinforces that there need to be more opportunities to meet that need.

Point the Monday: Desk jobs and poor posture may have contributed to my current injured state. It's hard to expect muscles to work when they just sit around all day. I'm not going to quit, but I'm going to try to improve my posture along with taking some other more agressive measures.

Point the Tuesday: I heard from a nutritionist today to "eat light and eat often." I've heard this before, but her presentation on how this translated into controlling glucose made more sense than anything I've ever heard about eating before. I want to follow her advice. I expect some challenges, but hopefully this can lead to a healthier me.

There's the points. Add it up. $5.79, please.

Profound moment of the day

I'd like this to become a regular feature, but I don't think it will.

I said, "I'm not like everybody else."

She said,"Nobody is."

Blasphemorophic

I think I get it. The appeal of the exercise-free existence. It's "extra" hours in the day. There's fewer sweaty shirts and shorts. I can go to a place and not spend the whole weekend teetering on the brink of exhaustion. I can eat Nachos in the middle of a Saturday and not worry about the cheese weighing me down or worse coming up. If I'm a little dehydrated, it doesn't affect the performance of my Metro ride.

I think I get it. I can even appreciate it.

P.S. I hate it.

A battle for the 50

It was vs.


It was a battle of wits. It was a battle of charm. Armed with my winsome personality and my learned ability to attract the greatest generation, I took on what some have called "the cutest baby EVER." It seemed like an impossible task. Look at those adorable little arms! We agreed to the terms. At the end of the weekend, the winner would be the hat wearer who had attracted the most people over 50. I agreed not to go out of my way to recruit so long as she agreed not to use words. At a coffee shop, she immediately jumped out to an early lead, but I was able to battle back, taking the lead by snagging a couple in a conversation about a strange gathering of birds on the surface of the lake. I had the advantage of mobility, but what the girl lacked in transport she more than made up in squeaky sounds. My lead was short-lived and a flock of elders apparently descended on her in a grocery store, putting her total out of my reach.

I accept defeat humbly. Hats off to my worthy opponent.