On my drive to work today, I crested a hill and saw lines of taillights illuminating a backup. They occasionally blinked, but most of the time they remained lit. Jerks switched lanes. I immediately checked my rear-view to make sure no one was riding my bumper, then I swerved off and turned down a side street. Better to take my chances with stop signs and back roads than inch forward until the traffic cleared.
The stick shift I drive has lost its clutch twice, and the idea of riding the pedals didn’t entice me. I have no car radio, which only magnifies dead time. Especially time inert.
I didn’t care that the detour was the exact opposite direction from my destination. At that moment, it dawned on me: I happily traded progress for movement. That’s how I live my life. Doesn’t matter if the momentum is lateral or even backwards, so long as I’m going somewhere. Stimulate the eyes. Only tax the brain as I mentally plot my newly evolving map.
This feels like an allegory to something much bigger. Once I figure out what that is, I’ll compose more on the topic.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Heaviest 35 Pounds in the World
In my early 20s, I worked in a mailroom. My sense of touch was so refined, I could hold an envelope and tell you whether mailing the contents would require one, two or three stamps. I had a scale to confirm my suspicions, but I was correct more often than not.
My parents have a brick painted gold in their house. It’s a small, solid cinder block with a side dug out for a metal handle. On the side is painted the weight: 50 pounds. It was fun watching new visitors check to see if the weight was correct, often grunting as their shoulders stretched with the tug of trying to lift it.
I carry 230 pounds on a daily basis, though I’d win most carnival “Guess Your Weight” booths because my proportions don’t appear that heavy. It’s kind of people to guess I’m under two bills, but I could easily pass for 210. 205 if I suck in my gut.
I mention these weights because Sunday night, my three year old jumped on my balls. We were playing on the floor, and I warned him about how roughhousing would end up with someone hurt and crying. He charged me, unprepared, and flew like a wrestler off the top rope, stomping down with all of his might onto the mat. With my testicles under his feet.
I did what any man would do in that situation – I wept and stagger-crawled to the bathroom to vacate any food from my stomach. I didn’t feel any blood, so nothing ripped. I cupped myself and counted to two, so that was good. But the pain! Easily top three in my lifetime.
After some of the pain subsided (but not all; it’s now Thursday and I’m still sore), I debated posting something about the incident as my Facebook status. It’d certainly be unique. But, while I’m curious what responses it would evoke, I don’t think posting about genitals is appropriate. It’s a personal thing.
Y’know, like for a blog.
My parents have a brick painted gold in their house. It’s a small, solid cinder block with a side dug out for a metal handle. On the side is painted the weight: 50 pounds. It was fun watching new visitors check to see if the weight was correct, often grunting as their shoulders stretched with the tug of trying to lift it.
I carry 230 pounds on a daily basis, though I’d win most carnival “Guess Your Weight” booths because my proportions don’t appear that heavy. It’s kind of people to guess I’m under two bills, but I could easily pass for 210. 205 if I suck in my gut.
I mention these weights because Sunday night, my three year old jumped on my balls. We were playing on the floor, and I warned him about how roughhousing would end up with someone hurt and crying. He charged me, unprepared, and flew like a wrestler off the top rope, stomping down with all of his might onto the mat. With my testicles under his feet.
I did what any man would do in that situation – I wept and stagger-crawled to the bathroom to vacate any food from my stomach. I didn’t feel any blood, so nothing ripped. I cupped myself and counted to two, so that was good. But the pain! Easily top three in my lifetime.
After some of the pain subsided (but not all; it’s now Thursday and I’m still sore), I debated posting something about the incident as my Facebook status. It’d certainly be unique. But, while I’m curious what responses it would evoke, I don’t think posting about genitals is appropriate. It’s a personal thing.
Y’know, like for a blog.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Drive-By Carnies
I have faint memories of riding salt and pepper shakers as a child. For those unfamiliar, salt and pepper shakers are a carnival ride, where you climb inside a small pod at the end of a pole-contraption, then that pod circles while spinning. It's a miserable experience, and I have to chalk it up to being the early 80s as to why they don't exist anymore. Litigation being what it is now. I would never let any of my children ride such a cruel monstrosity, and I may have some resentment issues towards my parents for letting me board the thing, though most of my childhood memories are blurry. As this is one of the few images that I can recollect, I'll assume it's a good thing the rest remains out of focus.
Anyway, the carnival has come to town again like it does at least twice annually. Semis unload and set up their rickety ferris wheel and assorted vomit-inducers, along with “food stands” for corn dogs, funnel cakes, and pizza grease. (Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve separated those from the vomit-inducer category.) Generators power the thousands of light bulbs, and I can’t see how the operations turn a profit. (Do they also pay rent to the supermarket for using their parking lot?)
Curiosity, plus a desire for an alternative to Redboxing it, inspired me to take Leslie to perhaps ride the ferris wheel. We arrived at the tail end of an evening as the clock approached ten. I escorted my wife through Sucker’s Row, ignoring pleas to dart balloons or ring bottles. I’m not a mark. I’m not a rube. I have no need for an oversized, Styrofoam-stuffed fuzzy banana and I really can’t fathom who does.
The gate and corrals to accommodate the non-existent lines had a sign requiring five tickets per person to ride the big wheel. Without knowing the conversion rate between dollars and tickets, I wasn’t discouraged. When I located the booth and learned tickets were a dollar each, I was less than thrilled. But ten bucks for ten minutes time was acceptable, especially since I’d already turned down Leslie’s request to stop at a specialty sundae shop. (Doesn’t the old saying go “You have to spend money to make happy?”)
Mostly fortunately but a little unfortunately, we discovered the booth was closed. Tickets couldn’t be sold, cash wasn’t accepted at the ride, and we were out of luck. Really? I can’t speak for Les, but I felt lucky.
In lieu of making myself nauseas via the ride, I opted for one of their “famous” funnel cakes. Did they possess a special mold to make the stringy bread into faces? Had their special flavoring (aka powdered sugar) won international acclaim?
I approached the large, unhappy woman behind the food counter and asked if they, unlike the ticket booth, were still open.
“Sure. Cash only. No change.”
My wallet contained a twenty and nothing else. While one funnel cake mightn’t make me sick, four funnel cakes made that ending inevitable.
I briefly attempted a haggle for two funnel cakes and ten tickets, but the carnie corrected me that, “Ticket booth’s closed.” Of course. Stupid me.
As my boys get older and more adventurous, they’ll more than likely want to try some of those rides, win some worthless crap, and impress future girlfriends by tossing ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. Staying one hour could easily run fifty bucks, and that’s without entering Sucker’s Row.
Spending a couple hundred bucks for Disneyland doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. See? There’s always a silver lining.
Oh wait. That’s just the reflection from pizza grease on the blacktop.
Anyway, the carnival has come to town again like it does at least twice annually. Semis unload and set up their rickety ferris wheel and assorted vomit-inducers, along with “food stands” for corn dogs, funnel cakes, and pizza grease. (Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve separated those from the vomit-inducer category.) Generators power the thousands of light bulbs, and I can’t see how the operations turn a profit. (Do they also pay rent to the supermarket for using their parking lot?)
Curiosity, plus a desire for an alternative to Redboxing it, inspired me to take Leslie to perhaps ride the ferris wheel. We arrived at the tail end of an evening as the clock approached ten. I escorted my wife through Sucker’s Row, ignoring pleas to dart balloons or ring bottles. I’m not a mark. I’m not a rube. I have no need for an oversized, Styrofoam-stuffed fuzzy banana and I really can’t fathom who does.
The gate and corrals to accommodate the non-existent lines had a sign requiring five tickets per person to ride the big wheel. Without knowing the conversion rate between dollars and tickets, I wasn’t discouraged. When I located the booth and learned tickets were a dollar each, I was less than thrilled. But ten bucks for ten minutes time was acceptable, especially since I’d already turned down Leslie’s request to stop at a specialty sundae shop. (Doesn’t the old saying go “You have to spend money to make happy?”)
Mostly fortunately but a little unfortunately, we discovered the booth was closed. Tickets couldn’t be sold, cash wasn’t accepted at the ride, and we were out of luck. Really? I can’t speak for Les, but I felt lucky.
In lieu of making myself nauseas via the ride, I opted for one of their “famous” funnel cakes. Did they possess a special mold to make the stringy bread into faces? Had their special flavoring (aka powdered sugar) won international acclaim?
I approached the large, unhappy woman behind the food counter and asked if they, unlike the ticket booth, were still open.
“Sure. Cash only. No change.”
My wallet contained a twenty and nothing else. While one funnel cake mightn’t make me sick, four funnel cakes made that ending inevitable.
I briefly attempted a haggle for two funnel cakes and ten tickets, but the carnie corrected me that, “Ticket booth’s closed.” Of course. Stupid me.
As my boys get older and more adventurous, they’ll more than likely want to try some of those rides, win some worthless crap, and impress future girlfriends by tossing ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. Staying one hour could easily run fifty bucks, and that’s without entering Sucker’s Row.
Spending a couple hundred bucks for Disneyland doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. See? There’s always a silver lining.
Oh wait. That’s just the reflection from pizza grease on the blacktop.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Automatic for the Pee
I shall now attempt to list Innovations in Toilet History without doing any research whatsoever:
Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.
Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.
Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.
Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.
Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.
Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?
(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)
If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.
If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.
Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.
Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.
Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.
Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.
Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.
Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.
Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?
(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)
If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.
If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.
Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Err Jordan
Something persuaded my father to sign me up for wrestling instead of basketball when I was seven years old. In lieu of running fast breaks, draining Js, and denying weakass shots in the paint, I donned a blue onesie, endured mat burns, and suffered endurance contests of six-inches, a cruel coach’s drill designed to build and strengthen abs. Lie flat on your back, feet together. Lift your legs until your ankles are six inches off the mat. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Aaaaaaaaaaand down. Once you collect your breath and convince yourself you’re not vomiting, do it again. Repeat until tears fall.
Wrestling also required early morning jogs, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I still loathe both early morning and jogging. If that didn’t suffice, it also started pre-pubescents to diet so we could hit our weight classes. I’m sure some good came out of it, but I suspect I’ll have to ask St. Peter what good that was, as little of it has been revealed in this earthly life.
These days, there aren’t many calls for wrestling. Sure, I tackle and roll with my boys on a regular basis, but I’ve not yet had to apply a half-nelson, cradle, or arm bar. My career in MMA was over long before it ever began.
Conversely, I play basketball twice weekly. And weakly. I possess the shooting touch of a Howitzer, and my ups continue their downward trend as gravity holds me closer to the floor than it used to. Not that I was ever a sky force to contend with; I’ve only touched rim with the aid of a trampoline. I see lanes well enough and my sheer mass is enough to box out anyone who doesn’t have the audacity to outjump me. Mostly, I set a mean pick and roll. Minus the roll.
Once a year, I develop a superpower, in that my reflexes, my perspective, my touch, my vision, and my entire game elevates a dozen notches. Suddenly, I can pop shot after shot from beyond the arc and my baby hook doesn’t wet the bed. It reminds me of NBA Jams, the video game where your players can be “ON FIRE!” after hitting three consecutive baskets. It’s a ridiculous, glorious feeling and if I knew how to bottle it, I’d go pro. Yes, even at 39.
Sadly, those fleeting moments are rare. Worse, I’m such an abysmal shooter the rest of the time that I eschew jacking up bricks with the hopes of starting a new miracle streak. As Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” What he didn’t say is “If you only take one shot and you make it, you hit 100% of your shots.” Which I do. Often.
Sometimes.
Occasionally.
Twice.
Anybody need me to set a pick?
Wrestling also required early morning jogs, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I still loathe both early morning and jogging. If that didn’t suffice, it also started pre-pubescents to diet so we could hit our weight classes. I’m sure some good came out of it, but I suspect I’ll have to ask St. Peter what good that was, as little of it has been revealed in this earthly life.
These days, there aren’t many calls for wrestling. Sure, I tackle and roll with my boys on a regular basis, but I’ve not yet had to apply a half-nelson, cradle, or arm bar. My career in MMA was over long before it ever began.
Conversely, I play basketball twice weekly. And weakly. I possess the shooting touch of a Howitzer, and my ups continue their downward trend as gravity holds me closer to the floor than it used to. Not that I was ever a sky force to contend with; I’ve only touched rim with the aid of a trampoline. I see lanes well enough and my sheer mass is enough to box out anyone who doesn’t have the audacity to outjump me. Mostly, I set a mean pick and roll. Minus the roll.
Once a year, I develop a superpower, in that my reflexes, my perspective, my touch, my vision, and my entire game elevates a dozen notches. Suddenly, I can pop shot after shot from beyond the arc and my baby hook doesn’t wet the bed. It reminds me of NBA Jams, the video game where your players can be “ON FIRE!” after hitting three consecutive baskets. It’s a ridiculous, glorious feeling and if I knew how to bottle it, I’d go pro. Yes, even at 39.
Sadly, those fleeting moments are rare. Worse, I’m such an abysmal shooter the rest of the time that I eschew jacking up bricks with the hopes of starting a new miracle streak. As Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” What he didn’t say is “If you only take one shot and you make it, you hit 100% of your shots.” Which I do. Often.
Sometimes.
Occasionally.
Twice.
Anybody need me to set a pick?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Like Riding a Bike
Unless you consider gimmick limericks for a cafe as writing, I haven't put words on paper in months. It's frustrating, aggravating, depressing, and lame. I've no shortage of ideas - an accumulated journal of ideas passed over the years haunts me, as none of them is currently inspiring. I'm reluctant to give those ideas full respect - it's rare that I have simultaneously great concepts, but only the time to pursue one. I could throw out the sketchbook of second-tier ideas, but that seems counterproductive. No worse than the amount of writing I've done.
And that's how you fill a paragraph by saying nothing. Remarkably similar to the other 106 blog entries, if I do say so myself.
I decided to look for a marketable opportunity this time - perhaps rerouting would help spark me toward the destination of publication? Isn't that why I started this quasi-anti-blog in the first place? Get my brain working a variety of methods with the hopes of something worthwhile popping forth? And then, watch as some multiconglomerate recognized me, decided I filled the Jim-sized-and-shaped-niche that the world so sadly lacks and would so be willing to pay inordinate amounts of American currency for.... (sigh).
I cut out an inspirational comic strip yesterday. http://comics.com/soup_to_nutz/2010-05-23/ Hardly the same spirit as 95% of the comics I appreciate, but I'm hoping to dredge some butterflies out of the drek currently inhabiting the writer's part of my brain.
A writer writes. I daren't credit myself with that title until I at least put something new together. I wouldn't consider myself a mechanic if I didn't fix a machine in months, regardless of how skilled I may have been before my self-and-apathy-imposed layoff.
I'm pretty sure riding a bike is much easier than this crap.
And that's how you fill a paragraph by saying nothing. Remarkably similar to the other 106 blog entries, if I do say so myself.
I decided to look for a marketable opportunity this time - perhaps rerouting would help spark me toward the destination of publication? Isn't that why I started this quasi-anti-blog in the first place? Get my brain working a variety of methods with the hopes of something worthwhile popping forth? And then, watch as some multiconglomerate recognized me, decided I filled the Jim-sized-and-shaped-niche that the world so sadly lacks and would so be willing to pay inordinate amounts of American currency for.... (sigh).
I cut out an inspirational comic strip yesterday. http://comics.com/soup_to_nutz/2010-05-23/ Hardly the same spirit as 95% of the comics I appreciate, but I'm hoping to dredge some butterflies out of the drek currently inhabiting the writer's part of my brain.
A writer writes. I daren't credit myself with that title until I at least put something new together. I wouldn't consider myself a mechanic if I didn't fix a machine in months, regardless of how skilled I may have been before my self-and-apathy-imposed layoff.
I'm pretty sure riding a bike is much easier than this crap.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
My Life in a Song (or 100)
I published this note on Facebook earlier today, and since my readership here exceeds my readership there, I thought I'd share....
Though this sounds painfully like a Facebook trend, I have to credit a former roommate for the idea. He recently put together a "sountrack to his life" and challenged me to do the same. I recognize the fact that very few people will look at this if they're not tagged. Meh.
A few disclaimers:
1. The years noted are when I remember them, not necessarily when the songs were released. It's possible I remember an 80s song from before it was released; if that's the case, it's because I transcend time.
2. I've no clue how to pinpoint dates from growing up, so the first four I'm attaching to before I turned 10. Close enough for horseshoes, handgrenades, and whogivesacraps.
3. Tapioca. (Someday, someone will write a song with that as the sole lyric.)
4. Most of these relate to 20th century club, PW (E and H), EGO, SU, Temple, SCAD, ex girlfriends, current wife, Tom's Cabin, driving cross-country, or singing inside my motorcycle helmet. Each track evokes some memory. At some point, I liked all of the songs. I can no longer make that claim today.
1. Boom Boom Ain’t It Great to Be Crazy - Wee Kids - (79)
2. The Age of Aquarius - 5th Dimension - (79)
3. In the Hall of the Mountain King - Edvard Grieg - (79)
4. 99 Miles to LA - Johnny Mathis - (79)
5. My Life - Billy Joel - (81)
6. Vienna - Billy Joel - (82)
7. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer - Beatles - (83)
8. Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue - Crystal Gayle - (83)
9. The Devil Went Down to Georgia - Charlie Daniels Band - (83)
10. Cum on Feel the Noize - Quiet Riot - (84)
11. Stay the Night - Chicago - (84)
12. The Last Dance - Irene Cara - (84)
13. Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin - (84)
14. You’re a Friend of Mine - Jackson Browne & Clarence Clemons - (85)
15. Take On Me - a-ha - (85)
16. Standing in Your Shadow - In Pursuit - (85)
17. The Refugee - U2 - (85)
18. Let’s Go Crazy - Prince - (85)
19. Thriller - Michael Jackson - (85)
20. That’s All - Genesis - (85)
21. The Rainbow Connection - Jim Henson - (85)
22. Am I in Sync - Steve Taylor - (85)
23. Fire and Rain - James Taylor - (86)
24. You Light Up My Life - Carole King - (86)
25. Hyperactive - Thomas Dolby - (86)
26. Walking on a Thin Line - Huey Lewis and the News - (86)
27. Shattered Dreams - Johnny Hates Jazz - (86)
28. One More Minute - Weird Al Yankovic - (86)
29. Penny Lane - Beatles - (86)
30. Don’t Stop Believin’ - Journey - (86)
31. Trains Up in the Sky - Mylon Lefevre & Broken Heart - (86)
32. It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) - REM - (86)
33. Just Like Heaven - The Cure - (86)
34. What I Like About You - The Romantics - (87)
35. Leave It - Yes - (87)
36. That Voice Again - Peter Gabriel - (87)
37. Mary’s Prayer - Danny Wilson - (87)
38. Ba Ba Ba Ba - The 77s - (87)
39. Roxanne - The Police - (87)
40. Living on the Bright Side - Bryan Duncan - (87)
41. I Drove All Night - Cyndi Lauper - (88)
42. It Takes Two - Rob Bass and EZ Rock - (88)
43. Wipeout - Beach Boys - (88)
44. Good Lovin - Bobby McFerrin - (88)
45. Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd - (88)
46. Rio - Duran Duran - (88)
47. Poison - Bell Biv Devoe - (88)
48. Love is Not Lost - Leslie Phillips - (88)
49. Fragile - Sting - (89)
50. Oh Yeah! - Yello - (89)
51. Boys of Summer - Don Henley - (89)
52. Life in a Northern Town - The Dream Academy - (89)
53. Still Rock and Roll to Me - Billy Joel - (89)
54. Just a Friend - Biz Markie - (89)
55. Hotel California - Eagles - (90)
56. I Want to Know (What You’re Feeling) - Information Society - (90)
57. Hot for Teacher - Van Halen - (90)
58. Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen - (90)
59. Istanbul (Not Constantinople) - They Might Be Giants - (91)
60. Violent Blue - Chagall Guevera - (91)
61. More to this Life - Steven Curtis Chapman - (92)
62. Blame it on Me - Barenaked Ladies - (92)
63. She’s a Beauty - The Tubes - (92)
64. Goodbye, Goodbye - Oingo Boingo - (93)
65. I’ll Settle for You - Roommates - (93)
66. Dim - Dada - (93)
67. He Is Not Silent - Out of the Grey - (93)
68. Remember the Rainbow - The Fishermen - (93)
69. Always Something There to Remind Me - Naked Eyes - (94)
70. Spinning Round - Pray for Rain - (94)
71. I Just Wanna Know - Steve Taylor - (95)
72. Shine - Newsboys - (95)
73. Great Big Stupid World - Randy Stonehill - (95)
74. Four Seven - Jars of Clay - (95)
75. Days Go By - Duncan Sheik - (96)
76. When I Was a Boy - Dar Williams - (96)
77. Burning Down the House - Talking Heads - (96)
78. Sarah Smile - Hall & Oates - (96)
79. A Day in the Life - Beatles - (96)
80. Justified - Black Eyed Sceva - (96)
81. The Window - Trout Fishing in America - (97)
82. Go Daddy-O - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - (97)
83. Fame - Todd Greene - (97)
84. Delivery - Roommates - (97)
85. American Girl - Tom Petty - (97)
86. Desire - U2 - (97)
87. What Wondrous Love Is This? - Randall Lancaster - (98)
88. House on Pooh Corner - Kenny Loggins - (98)
89. When Doves Cry - Prince - (99)
90. Center of Attention - Guster - (00)
91. Another Horsedreamer’s Blues - Counting Crows - (00)
92. Sixteen Candles - Sponge - (00)
93. Tony - Patty Griffin - (01)
94. I Do What I Can - Sheryl Crow - (02)
95. The Finish Line - Steve Taylor - (03)
96. Everybody Loves Jill - Cowboy Mouth - (03)
97. Skin - Vigilantes of Love - (03)
98. The Luckiest - Ben Folds - (05)
99. Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley - (06)
100. The Blower’s Daughter - Damien Rice - (07)
If you've nothing to do and too much time, I encourage you to create your own list. I also encourage you to give me money, regardless of your circumstances.
Though this sounds painfully like a Facebook trend, I have to credit a former roommate for the idea. He recently put together a "sountrack to his life" and challenged me to do the same. I recognize the fact that very few people will look at this if they're not tagged. Meh.
A few disclaimers:
1. The years noted are when I remember them, not necessarily when the songs were released. It's possible I remember an 80s song from before it was released; if that's the case, it's because I transcend time.
2. I've no clue how to pinpoint dates from growing up, so the first four I'm attaching to before I turned 10. Close enough for horseshoes, handgrenades, and whogivesacraps.
3. Tapioca. (Someday, someone will write a song with that as the sole lyric.)
4. Most of these relate to 20th century club, PW (E and H), EGO, SU, Temple, SCAD, ex girlfriends, current wife, Tom's Cabin, driving cross-country, or singing inside my motorcycle helmet. Each track evokes some memory. At some point, I liked all of the songs. I can no longer make that claim today.
1. Boom Boom Ain’t It Great to Be Crazy - Wee Kids - (79)
2. The Age of Aquarius - 5th Dimension - (79)
3. In the Hall of the Mountain King - Edvard Grieg - (79)
4. 99 Miles to LA - Johnny Mathis - (79)
5. My Life - Billy Joel - (81)
6. Vienna - Billy Joel - (82)
7. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer - Beatles - (83)
8. Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue - Crystal Gayle - (83)
9. The Devil Went Down to Georgia - Charlie Daniels Band - (83)
10. Cum on Feel the Noize - Quiet Riot - (84)
11. Stay the Night - Chicago - (84)
12. The Last Dance - Irene Cara - (84)
13. Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin - (84)
14. You’re a Friend of Mine - Jackson Browne & Clarence Clemons - (85)
15. Take On Me - a-ha - (85)
16. Standing in Your Shadow - In Pursuit - (85)
17. The Refugee - U2 - (85)
18. Let’s Go Crazy - Prince - (85)
19. Thriller - Michael Jackson - (85)
20. That’s All - Genesis - (85)
21. The Rainbow Connection - Jim Henson - (85)
22. Am I in Sync - Steve Taylor - (85)
23. Fire and Rain - James Taylor - (86)
24. You Light Up My Life - Carole King - (86)
25. Hyperactive - Thomas Dolby - (86)
26. Walking on a Thin Line - Huey Lewis and the News - (86)
27. Shattered Dreams - Johnny Hates Jazz - (86)
28. One More Minute - Weird Al Yankovic - (86)
29. Penny Lane - Beatles - (86)
30. Don’t Stop Believin’ - Journey - (86)
31. Trains Up in the Sky - Mylon Lefevre & Broken Heart - (86)
32. It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) - REM - (86)
33. Just Like Heaven - The Cure - (86)
34. What I Like About You - The Romantics - (87)
35. Leave It - Yes - (87)
36. That Voice Again - Peter Gabriel - (87)
37. Mary’s Prayer - Danny Wilson - (87)
38. Ba Ba Ba Ba - The 77s - (87)
39. Roxanne - The Police - (87)
40. Living on the Bright Side - Bryan Duncan - (87)
41. I Drove All Night - Cyndi Lauper - (88)
42. It Takes Two - Rob Bass and EZ Rock - (88)
43. Wipeout - Beach Boys - (88)
44. Good Lovin - Bobby McFerrin - (88)
45. Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd - (88)
46. Rio - Duran Duran - (88)
47. Poison - Bell Biv Devoe - (88)
48. Love is Not Lost - Leslie Phillips - (88)
49. Fragile - Sting - (89)
50. Oh Yeah! - Yello - (89)
51. Boys of Summer - Don Henley - (89)
52. Life in a Northern Town - The Dream Academy - (89)
53. Still Rock and Roll to Me - Billy Joel - (89)
54. Just a Friend - Biz Markie - (89)
55. Hotel California - Eagles - (90)
56. I Want to Know (What You’re Feeling) - Information Society - (90)
57. Hot for Teacher - Van Halen - (90)
58. Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen - (90)
59. Istanbul (Not Constantinople) - They Might Be Giants - (91)
60. Violent Blue - Chagall Guevera - (91)
61. More to this Life - Steven Curtis Chapman - (92)
62. Blame it on Me - Barenaked Ladies - (92)
63. She’s a Beauty - The Tubes - (92)
64. Goodbye, Goodbye - Oingo Boingo - (93)
65. I’ll Settle for You - Roommates - (93)
66. Dim - Dada - (93)
67. He Is Not Silent - Out of the Grey - (93)
68. Remember the Rainbow - The Fishermen - (93)
69. Always Something There to Remind Me - Naked Eyes - (94)
70. Spinning Round - Pray for Rain - (94)
71. I Just Wanna Know - Steve Taylor - (95)
72. Shine - Newsboys - (95)
73. Great Big Stupid World - Randy Stonehill - (95)
74. Four Seven - Jars of Clay - (95)
75. Days Go By - Duncan Sheik - (96)
76. When I Was a Boy - Dar Williams - (96)
77. Burning Down the House - Talking Heads - (96)
78. Sarah Smile - Hall & Oates - (96)
79. A Day in the Life - Beatles - (96)
80. Justified - Black Eyed Sceva - (96)
81. The Window - Trout Fishing in America - (97)
82. Go Daddy-O - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - (97)
83. Fame - Todd Greene - (97)
84. Delivery - Roommates - (97)
85. American Girl - Tom Petty - (97)
86. Desire - U2 - (97)
87. What Wondrous Love Is This? - Randall Lancaster - (98)
88. House on Pooh Corner - Kenny Loggins - (98)
89. When Doves Cry - Prince - (99)
90. Center of Attention - Guster - (00)
91. Another Horsedreamer’s Blues - Counting Crows - (00)
92. Sixteen Candles - Sponge - (00)
93. Tony - Patty Griffin - (01)
94. I Do What I Can - Sheryl Crow - (02)
95. The Finish Line - Steve Taylor - (03)
96. Everybody Loves Jill - Cowboy Mouth - (03)
97. Skin - Vigilantes of Love - (03)
98. The Luckiest - Ben Folds - (05)
99. Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley - (06)
100. The Blower’s Daughter - Damien Rice - (07)
If you've nothing to do and too much time, I encourage you to create your own list. I also encourage you to give me money, regardless of your circumstances.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Plea Bargain
When someone says they don't want to complain, aren't they immediately betraying their interest? At the very least, they're setting themselves up to fail.
Yesterday, I made the mistake of surfing blogs. As I progressed from one to the next, I was again reminded why I think they're pointless. Don't get me wrong; some bloggers displayed beautiful photographs, others offered valuable insights on maximizing technical efficiency, others relayed updates on their ministries or families, and yet others detailed their struggles with diseases, often terminal.
I don't know what motivated me to continue browsing. Perhaps it was an voyeuristic impulse to glimpse into the lives of total strangers? More likely than not, I wanted some way to procrastinate and I'd already been through my daily rituals.
One recurring theme was reinforced as I visited blog after blog: I don't care. Seriously. I couldn't care less about cutesy baby pictures or the difficulties of eight-months-preggers ladies navigating shopping carts through a crowded supermarket. I'm not learning SQL anytime soon, nor have I any investment in somebody's journey for self-discovery by trekking through the Himalayas. What I wanted was something worth reading.
(Note to self: that's why books exist.)
I returned to a blog I thoroughly enjoy - Stephan Pastis, the cartoonist who does Pearls Before Swine. He cracks me up. So does Steve Martin's blog. But no one would visit their sites if they weren't already established in other venues.
So why do I write this? Haven't I asked that about a hundred times already? Is it for those few-and-far-between comments? I could achieve faster and better feedback from Facebook. Is it to maintain a practice and discipline for writing? And Here's the Kicker encouraged comedy writers to maintain journals. Would this qualify?
Have I ever committed so much time and effort to a senseless, pointless venture like this? On the days when I phone it in, would I be better off skipping altogether? What's my record for consecutive questions? Why do I suddenly feel like Macauley Caulkin from Uncle Buck?
I've determined if I have a request for my reading public (all nine of you), then I should state it up front because odds are slim of getting to the bottom of an introspective, non-funny entry like this. Even if I include tapioca.
So here's my plea: Give me a purpose for writing this. If you think it's humorous and that's sufficient, say so. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions. (I may not use them, but I'm willing to read them.) Ready? Begin.
Yesterday, I made the mistake of surfing blogs. As I progressed from one to the next, I was again reminded why I think they're pointless. Don't get me wrong; some bloggers displayed beautiful photographs, others offered valuable insights on maximizing technical efficiency, others relayed updates on their ministries or families, and yet others detailed their struggles with diseases, often terminal.
I don't know what motivated me to continue browsing. Perhaps it was an voyeuristic impulse to glimpse into the lives of total strangers? More likely than not, I wanted some way to procrastinate and I'd already been through my daily rituals.
One recurring theme was reinforced as I visited blog after blog: I don't care. Seriously. I couldn't care less about cutesy baby pictures or the difficulties of eight-months-preggers ladies navigating shopping carts through a crowded supermarket. I'm not learning SQL anytime soon, nor have I any investment in somebody's journey for self-discovery by trekking through the Himalayas. What I wanted was something worth reading.
(Note to self: that's why books exist.)
I returned to a blog I thoroughly enjoy - Stephan Pastis, the cartoonist who does Pearls Before Swine. He cracks me up. So does Steve Martin's blog. But no one would visit their sites if they weren't already established in other venues.
So why do I write this? Haven't I asked that about a hundred times already? Is it for those few-and-far-between comments? I could achieve faster and better feedback from Facebook. Is it to maintain a practice and discipline for writing? And Here's the Kicker encouraged comedy writers to maintain journals. Would this qualify?
Have I ever committed so much time and effort to a senseless, pointless venture like this? On the days when I phone it in, would I be better off skipping altogether? What's my record for consecutive questions? Why do I suddenly feel like Macauley Caulkin from Uncle Buck?
I've determined if I have a request for my reading public (all nine of you), then I should state it up front because odds are slim of getting to the bottom of an introspective, non-funny entry like this. Even if I include tapioca.
So here's my plea: Give me a purpose for writing this. If you think it's humorous and that's sufficient, say so. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions. (I may not use them, but I'm willing to read them.) Ready? Begin.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Ten for Thursday
That makes me happier than a bowl of pancakes.
If I were to describe you, the list of words I'd use would be long and repetitive.
My boys were screaming in the other room. I couldn't decipher most of the words, but I was pretty sure I heard "bleeding."
Me: Who's bleeding?
Justin: Nobody! Except for Josh and Scooter.
Two awful jokes I came up with for the boys:
What's Braveheart's favorite snack food? FRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITOOOOOOS!
What do you call a bovine drummer? Cowabongo!
Irish people are from Ireland. Scottish people are from Scotland. Why is there no "Jewland?"
Through minutes of research, I have concluded there is no substitute for a dog. Then again, if your class is being taught by a dog and it gets sick, it's probably best to take the day off.
Someday, I hope to look back at this blog and laugh. Until then, I intend to look forward at this blog and sigh.
Games for prostitutes' children to play: Red Light District/Green Light.
Every time you hear a bell, an angel gets its wings. Cell phone ring tones don't count.
What did you do if your Christmas tree was too fat to squeeze into the front trunk of your 1975 VW Bug? There's a joke in here somewhere, but it's outdated, confusing, and no less funny than anything else I've written today.
If I were to describe you, the list of words I'd use would be long and repetitive.
My boys were screaming in the other room. I couldn't decipher most of the words, but I was pretty sure I heard "bleeding."
Me: Who's bleeding?
Justin: Nobody! Except for Josh and Scooter.
Two awful jokes I came up with for the boys:
What's Braveheart's favorite snack food? FRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITOOOOOOS!
What do you call a bovine drummer? Cowabongo!
Irish people are from Ireland. Scottish people are from Scotland. Why is there no "Jewland?"
Through minutes of research, I have concluded there is no substitute for a dog. Then again, if your class is being taught by a dog and it gets sick, it's probably best to take the day off.
Someday, I hope to look back at this blog and laugh. Until then, I intend to look forward at this blog and sigh.
Games for prostitutes' children to play: Red Light District/Green Light.
Every time you hear a bell, an angel gets its wings. Cell phone ring tones don't count.
What did you do if your Christmas tree was too fat to squeeze into the front trunk of your 1975 VW Bug? There's a joke in here somewhere, but it's outdated, confusing, and no less funny than anything else I've written today.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Putting the Un in UnMotivation
Writers are supposed to establish a space, a sanctuary where they can and will write without distraction. Considering my three sons (the reality, not the television show), setting up such a haven at home is an impossibility. Plus, my home PC has games. Crappy ones, but I'm currently running a streak of 140+ consecutive wins at FreeCell. That should continue indefinitely until Justin decides to give it a go. Which would be best, because the pressure to maintain perfection is excruciating. I can't quit a game early, which becomes difficult when Les calls me away from the computer only seconds after starting a game. Sure, it may only take three minutes, but that's time I'm teaching my boys it's okay to delay or procrastinate. Add it to the list of things I've unwittingly instructed, and before I know it, I'll have children who can build pyramids... Later.
Back to my original point. I write from work. That's where I have less distractions. Even so, I've cleared out the detractors that suck at my attention and effort, answering overdue emails, entering receipts into my budget, straightening my desk, checking my Facebook and friends' blogs, and organizing my tote bag. So, of course, it's twenty minutes before I leave for the day.
A friend and I have worked and reworked a story too many times and I'm still unsatisfied with the conclusion. One murder takes place and a second killing happens in self-defense, but the best motive we've used so far is "madness." As in "The killer was crazy." Which is crap. I've searched every corner of my vacuous mind to determine the story - as is - isn't worth reworking again. So I'm removing the murder altogether and replacing it with a kidnapping. (Maybe that's what motivated the recent THR instructions?)
The new dynamic of the story deals with a kidnapper who got what he wanted from the kidnapped (kidnappee?), then doesn't know how to return him without getting caught. Ransom demands generally include escape transportation, international Visas/passports, or everyone to look away while the bad guy sneaks off.
This situation is considerably smaller - no ransom note. The kidnapper gets the victim specifically so the victim can do something. The victim reluctantly-but-eventually complies. And there I am.
I've sat on it too long, and need to rediscover the momentum that carried my interest so deeply into the original story, even if this incarnation bears little resemblance to that one. I write this as a challenge to myself, a hard-lined opportunity to accomplish something. YES! Tomorrow, I WILL finish that draft!
Or, at the very least, I'll delete this post.
Back to my original point. I write from work. That's where I have less distractions. Even so, I've cleared out the detractors that suck at my attention and effort, answering overdue emails, entering receipts into my budget, straightening my desk, checking my Facebook and friends' blogs, and organizing my tote bag. So, of course, it's twenty minutes before I leave for the day.
A friend and I have worked and reworked a story too many times and I'm still unsatisfied with the conclusion. One murder takes place and a second killing happens in self-defense, but the best motive we've used so far is "madness." As in "The killer was crazy." Which is crap. I've searched every corner of my vacuous mind to determine the story - as is - isn't worth reworking again. So I'm removing the murder altogether and replacing it with a kidnapping. (Maybe that's what motivated the recent THR instructions?)
The new dynamic of the story deals with a kidnapper who got what he wanted from the kidnapped (kidnappee?), then doesn't know how to return him without getting caught. Ransom demands generally include escape transportation, international Visas/passports, or everyone to look away while the bad guy sneaks off.
This situation is considerably smaller - no ransom note. The kidnapper gets the victim specifically so the victim can do something. The victim reluctantly-but-eventually complies. And there I am.
I've sat on it too long, and need to rediscover the momentum that carried my interest so deeply into the original story, even if this incarnation bears little resemblance to that one. I write this as a challenge to myself, a hard-lined opportunity to accomplish something. YES! Tomorrow, I WILL finish that draft!
Or, at the very least, I'll delete this post.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Organizational Schmactics
Today is a day of cleaning and budgeting, a time to straighten out the clutter on my desk and in my head. Because I feel no compulsion toward testing my job security, I also shan't test the fire sprinkler system in this new building. My sizeable forearms could perform a sweep, were it not for bordering cubicles that would inherit my junk. As part of this cube farm, I can't lift part of my station high enough to let gravity pull everything toward a trash can. Bummer.
Apparently, it's my destiny d'jour to look at each individual page and decide whether it should be filed, passed along to someone else, recycled or trashed. Which should mean four piles. Except mine ends up two: passed along or trashed. Technically, I could sidestep the middle man and assume the next person to read those things I pass forward will throw them out. Why not send them to the junk heap myself?
On one side of my station, I have a box of Kleenex. (Name brand, mind you, or else I'd call them tissues. Our copiers at the firm are actual Xerox machines. And my underwear is designed by Hanes.)
Someone has a job designing men's underwear.
I take that back. Many, many people have jobs designing men's underwear.
I bet they don't have messy desks.
Apparently, it's my destiny d'jour to look at each individual page and decide whether it should be filed, passed along to someone else, recycled or trashed. Which should mean four piles. Except mine ends up two: passed along or trashed. Technically, I could sidestep the middle man and assume the next person to read those things I pass forward will throw them out. Why not send them to the junk heap myself?
On one side of my station, I have a box of Kleenex. (Name brand, mind you, or else I'd call them tissues. Our copiers at the firm are actual Xerox machines. And my underwear is designed by Hanes.)
Someone has a job designing men's underwear.
I take that back. Many, many people have jobs designing men's underwear.
I bet they don't have messy desks.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Blog Entry #100!
It's true! I've hit triple digits. And yet, as I sit here eating my oatmeal with a fork, debating whether it's possible to scribble something with a keyboard, the sense of accomplishment ranks somewhere between getting a really good haircut and finding an open parking spot downtown on a Saturday night. There's something there, but it's not the sort of occasion worth writing about. Except the majority of The Hypocrite's Refuge consists of substance like this.
Should I conduct some informal, personal ceremony to commemorate my centennial achievement? I turn 39 tomorrow, and I've specifically requested nothing for my birthday. Baking a cake for a blog with such limited readership feels overzealous somehow.
As mentioned a few weeks ago, I'm reading "And Here's the Kicker," which is a series of "conversations with top humor writers on their craft." A recurring theme between them is the importance of honesty in their humor. Which makes me wonder - is there something true beneath my fluff? (I'm not merely referring to my belly hair, underneath which lies too much truth and ice cream.) Must I deliberately incorporate heavier substance to protect these entries from becoming too easily forgettable? Besides the frustration and angst of my wanna-be writer tendencies, the annoyances of stupid people, and the silliness of random wordplay, is there anything worthwhile to keep my followers coming back?
I ask myself again: why am I blogging? 'Tis good writer's practice to put words on paper daily. Discipline. Consistency. The chance hope of inspiration. But mainly, I blog with the hope of making someone laugh. I've no desire to cause you to spit your coffee across your monitor. I dislike LOL, ROFLMAO, and the sub-genre of acronym/emoticon so prevalent in chatting and texting, so my longing to inspire chuckles/giggles/smirks isn't accompanied by a craving for Twitterish feedback. Any belief that this would might viral was squelched before I started. I don't use photos or videos, I don't Twitter, I rarely use Facebook for anything beyond peeping.
Still, cyberspace is large enough that I wouldn't consider THR to be a waste of it. I'll continue forging onward, potentially revealing more of my thoughts than the mental chaff that amuses me. Or not. Years from now, it'd be nice to reminisce on something brilliant I conceived of. But then, why would I look here for that?
Same reason you do, I suppose.
So thanks to the half-dozen readers who frequent this site, more to the fewer who sporadically comment, and especially to the little people, who haven't been mentioned in an awards speech for far too long. The most important job little people do: create a perspective that lets us feel big. And there we are.
Should I conduct some informal, personal ceremony to commemorate my centennial achievement? I turn 39 tomorrow, and I've specifically requested nothing for my birthday. Baking a cake for a blog with such limited readership feels overzealous somehow.
As mentioned a few weeks ago, I'm reading "And Here's the Kicker," which is a series of "conversations with top humor writers on their craft." A recurring theme between them is the importance of honesty in their humor. Which makes me wonder - is there something true beneath my fluff? (I'm not merely referring to my belly hair, underneath which lies too much truth and ice cream.) Must I deliberately incorporate heavier substance to protect these entries from becoming too easily forgettable? Besides the frustration and angst of my wanna-be writer tendencies, the annoyances of stupid people, and the silliness of random wordplay, is there anything worthwhile to keep my followers coming back?
I ask myself again: why am I blogging? 'Tis good writer's practice to put words on paper daily. Discipline. Consistency. The chance hope of inspiration. But mainly, I blog with the hope of making someone laugh. I've no desire to cause you to spit your coffee across your monitor. I dislike LOL, ROFLMAO, and the sub-genre of acronym/emoticon so prevalent in chatting and texting, so my longing to inspire chuckles/giggles/smirks isn't accompanied by a craving for Twitterish feedback. Any belief that this would might viral was squelched before I started. I don't use photos or videos, I don't Twitter, I rarely use Facebook for anything beyond peeping.
Still, cyberspace is large enough that I wouldn't consider THR to be a waste of it. I'll continue forging onward, potentially revealing more of my thoughts than the mental chaff that amuses me. Or not. Years from now, it'd be nice to reminisce on something brilliant I conceived of. But then, why would I look here for that?
Same reason you do, I suppose.
So thanks to the half-dozen readers who frequent this site, more to the fewer who sporadically comment, and especially to the little people, who haven't been mentioned in an awards speech for far too long. The most important job little people do: create a perspective that lets us feel big. And there we are.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
No Tagbacks
Blogger's suggested labels for this post, and I'm guessing for all posts, are "scooters, vacation, fall." Why those three words? Did the creator of this site know I called my youngest son Scooter? Is he aware that we recently had to cancel a trip to Florida and run a staycation instead? Is his favorite season autumn? Or -
Whenever I go on vacation, one of the things my wife and I enjoy is seeing the city. Not the standard sightseer route, visiting memorials, landmarks, and architectural oddities. Instead, we rent a Vespa scooter and she holds onto me as we zoom down the streets and get a tourist's eye view on our surroundings. It's so much easier when the burden of finding a parking spot for a rental car is alleviated. When the streets are full, I simply turn the bike sideways and park it between two other vehicles. This was a great strategy until our latest excursion, when the backroads I attempted to navigate were peppered with potholes. Les bounced behind me on the seat, but she hung on, squeezing tighter and tighter with every jolt. An intelligent driver would've slowed down on such a street, but I enjoyed the sensation and if it encouraged her to hug, even better. I didn't realize how she was unintentionally cutting off my oxygen until things suddenly became very hazy. I think I blacked out. Which is never a good thing when driving a scooter. The Vespa flipped forward and sideways, catapulting both Les and myself into an agonizing sequence of unsynchronized flailing. It was the worst fall I'd ever endured.
Tags: scooters, vacation, fall.
Close?
Whenever I go on vacation, one of the things my wife and I enjoy is seeing the city. Not the standard sightseer route, visiting memorials, landmarks, and architectural oddities. Instead, we rent a Vespa scooter and she holds onto me as we zoom down the streets and get a tourist's eye view on our surroundings. It's so much easier when the burden of finding a parking spot for a rental car is alleviated. When the streets are full, I simply turn the bike sideways and park it between two other vehicles. This was a great strategy until our latest excursion, when the backroads I attempted to navigate were peppered with potholes. Les bounced behind me on the seat, but she hung on, squeezing tighter and tighter with every jolt. An intelligent driver would've slowed down on such a street, but I enjoyed the sensation and if it encouraged her to hug, even better. I didn't realize how she was unintentionally cutting off my oxygen until things suddenly became very hazy. I think I blacked out. Which is never a good thing when driving a scooter. The Vespa flipped forward and sideways, catapulting both Les and myself into an agonizing sequence of unsynchronized flailing. It was the worst fall I'd ever endured.
Tags: scooters, vacation, fall.
Close?
Friday, February 26, 2010
Baby Steps
If you're ever going to be a notorious kidnapper, you should start laying the groundwork sooner than later.
Step 1: The random note. See, that's where things get sketchy. I meant to write "ransom" note, but one typo and suddenly it looks like those spammy emails so prevalent ten years ago, the kind that offered, "humphrey swing matchstick yellow rabbit lozenge snowman twist gorilla hearty mayor queen bicycle" with a link I was never bold enough to click. Bypassing that error, a ransom note must (1) be written using cut-out magazine letters or other untraceable type, (2) demand something ridiculous and unattainable, and (3) possess a cryptic threat in a riddle which can be solved by third graders but not logical adults.
Step 2: Selecting a target. Many people may claim this to be the primary step, even more important that a ransom note. I see their point, but really, the idea is to get what you want, right? Figuring out who gets kidnapped is secondary, because it only makes sense to swipe someone who's relatives and loved ones have the potential to fulfill your demand. I wouldn't kidnap the daughter of a rubber duck factory mogul if what I really wanted was a toy boat.
Step 3: Avoid Stockholm Syndrome. Few things are more difficult than trying to return a victim when they no longer want to get away. Sure, the admiration derived from mental and emotional torture are fun from time to time, but before you know it, your kidnappee won't let you go out with your friends without the third degree. Then, really, who's suffering?
Step 4: Prepare for the worst case scenario. I've watched enough episodes of Rescue Heroes with my boys to know the best defense against a tidal wave or avalanche is hitting it with a bigger tidal wave or avalanche. Using the simple transitive principle, I derived the best strategy against getting caught by authorities is hitting them with bigger authorities. I recommend the IRS. Or intergalactic peacekeepers. Sadly, Canadian mounties don't trump nearly enough organizations.
Step 5: Be patient. Waiting is the hardest part. It must be; why else would it be so common a song lyric?
Step 6: Start small. If you're not yet ready to attempt a full-fledged kidnapping, I suggest starting with a pet. Too many people consider that to mean cats or dogs, which could run away on their own. Snakes and hamsters vanish with regularity. Whereas a goldfish could never escape its aquarium on its own, so someone must have kidnapped it! If you're an animal activist, you could always take a compost heap or bicycle pedal. Show the people you mean business!
Step 7: Keep a blog. Without good documentation, you'll never star in your own reality television vehicle. Tabloids don't require good writing - they want photos. Preferably photos of embarrassing situations, like when you accidentally spilled hot coffee in your lap while you were experimenting with handcuffs. Let the hilarity ensue!
Good luck. Oh, and stay away from my family. We combined weapons to make the ultimate protection device: cow tasers. You've been warned.
Step 1: The random note. See, that's where things get sketchy. I meant to write "ransom" note, but one typo and suddenly it looks like those spammy emails so prevalent ten years ago, the kind that offered, "humphrey swing matchstick yellow rabbit lozenge snowman twist gorilla hearty mayor queen bicycle" with a link I was never bold enough to click. Bypassing that error, a ransom note must (1) be written using cut-out magazine letters or other untraceable type, (2) demand something ridiculous and unattainable, and (3) possess a cryptic threat in a riddle which can be solved by third graders but not logical adults.
Step 2: Selecting a target. Many people may claim this to be the primary step, even more important that a ransom note. I see their point, but really, the idea is to get what you want, right? Figuring out who gets kidnapped is secondary, because it only makes sense to swipe someone who's relatives and loved ones have the potential to fulfill your demand. I wouldn't kidnap the daughter of a rubber duck factory mogul if what I really wanted was a toy boat.
Step 3: Avoid Stockholm Syndrome. Few things are more difficult than trying to return a victim when they no longer want to get away. Sure, the admiration derived from mental and emotional torture are fun from time to time, but before you know it, your kidnappee won't let you go out with your friends without the third degree. Then, really, who's suffering?
Step 4: Prepare for the worst case scenario. I've watched enough episodes of Rescue Heroes with my boys to know the best defense against a tidal wave or avalanche is hitting it with a bigger tidal wave or avalanche. Using the simple transitive principle, I derived the best strategy against getting caught by authorities is hitting them with bigger authorities. I recommend the IRS. Or intergalactic peacekeepers. Sadly, Canadian mounties don't trump nearly enough organizations.
Step 5: Be patient. Waiting is the hardest part. It must be; why else would it be so common a song lyric?
Step 6: Start small. If you're not yet ready to attempt a full-fledged kidnapping, I suggest starting with a pet. Too many people consider that to mean cats or dogs, which could run away on their own. Snakes and hamsters vanish with regularity. Whereas a goldfish could never escape its aquarium on its own, so someone must have kidnapped it! If you're an animal activist, you could always take a compost heap or bicycle pedal. Show the people you mean business!
Step 7: Keep a blog. Without good documentation, you'll never star in your own reality television vehicle. Tabloids don't require good writing - they want photos. Preferably photos of embarrassing situations, like when you accidentally spilled hot coffee in your lap while you were experimenting with handcuffs. Let the hilarity ensue!
Good luck. Oh, and stay away from my family. We combined weapons to make the ultimate protection device: cow tasers. You've been warned.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Unscientific Theory
I want to harvest sunshine. Not for solar power, but for something cooler. Lasers, maybe. Set up some kind of station with magnifying glasses and a fireproof container and see what kind of product I could generate. There are nine problems with this scenario, and I'll go into great detail on at least none of them.
#1. My shoes aren't right for the job. The soles are thinning and they're too cheap to bother fixing. I'd consider insulated shoes for my next pair, but they'd get too hot and I'd end up harvesting athlete's foot fungus instead. No.
#2. There's a dire shortage of stained glass on this planet. We just moved into a 29-story skyscraper with floor-to-ceiling glass on all four sides. Huge panes. How many of them are colored beyond a minor tint? Zero. Perhaps fairness is too devoted to love and war to concern itself with such matters.
#3. I can't remember if I've ever ridden in a helicopter. I know I've been on a seaplane to Catalina Island, and something tells me we helicoptered one direction, but that may have been a dream. (The helicopter, not the island.)
#4. Hepcats refuse to acknowledge the big band swing dancing revival that was rampant nearly fifteen years ago is now obsolete again. It's still cool to conduct a dance with a live band/orchestra, but if you're resorting to a DJ, why not go all out and rent a roller skating rink?
#5. Tapioca.
#6. Back in junior high school, I collected comic books. One Marvel heroine named the Dazzler was a pop singer who could absorb sound and transmit it into light. She was obviously conceived by women. And more obviously drawn by men. I can't shake the feeling that Marvel hoped to cross-platform and release an album by a comic character. For that matter, why didn't Stillwater release an album after Almost Famous? What about Dewey Cox? I know Spinal Tap has several EPs, but did the Folksmen ever put anything out? Anyone post-The Commitments?
#7. If I take all the sunlight, then how will plants photosynthesize oxygen from our carbon dioxide? Really now.
I guess I'll have to go back to desk battles between my tape dispenser and stapler. You'd think it'd be an easy win for the stapler, but it's hard to open wide enough to staple anything while you're completely wrapped in tape. Something to consider.
#1. My shoes aren't right for the job. The soles are thinning and they're too cheap to bother fixing. I'd consider insulated shoes for my next pair, but they'd get too hot and I'd end up harvesting athlete's foot fungus instead. No.
#2. There's a dire shortage of stained glass on this planet. We just moved into a 29-story skyscraper with floor-to-ceiling glass on all four sides. Huge panes. How many of them are colored beyond a minor tint? Zero. Perhaps fairness is too devoted to love and war to concern itself with such matters.
#3. I can't remember if I've ever ridden in a helicopter. I know I've been on a seaplane to Catalina Island, and something tells me we helicoptered one direction, but that may have been a dream. (The helicopter, not the island.)
#4. Hepcats refuse to acknowledge the big band swing dancing revival that was rampant nearly fifteen years ago is now obsolete again. It's still cool to conduct a dance with a live band/orchestra, but if you're resorting to a DJ, why not go all out and rent a roller skating rink?
#5. Tapioca.
#6. Back in junior high school, I collected comic books. One Marvel heroine named the Dazzler was a pop singer who could absorb sound and transmit it into light. She was obviously conceived by women. And more obviously drawn by men. I can't shake the feeling that Marvel hoped to cross-platform and release an album by a comic character. For that matter, why didn't Stillwater release an album after Almost Famous? What about Dewey Cox? I know Spinal Tap has several EPs, but did the Folksmen ever put anything out? Anyone post-The Commitments?
#7. If I take all the sunlight, then how will plants photosynthesize oxygen from our carbon dioxide? Really now.
I guess I'll have to go back to desk battles between my tape dispenser and stapler. You'd think it'd be an easy win for the stapler, but it's hard to open wide enough to staple anything while you're completely wrapped in tape. Something to consider.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Another Use for Rick Astley (not that you wanted one)
I'd like to take a moment to dissect one of my favorite songs.
There. Now that that's out of the way, I can get to this blog.
One of my favorite musical gimmicks is simultaneous melodies. Take a singer or three and have each of them singing something independently from the others - not just harmonies, but their own parts. Think of Toad the Wet Sprocket's Butterflies, or more famously, Paul McCartney's Silly Love Songs.
At some point, I have to believe some audio-techno-wiz will figure out how to completely intertwine two songs into a new creation greater than the sum of its parts. Don't stop at solo artists or bands (as 3/4 of The Spin Doctors songs could have overlapped without anyone noticing). Instead of sampling a riff, layer entire verses. Kind of like the Duets albums featuring Frank Sinatra or Natalie Cole singing with her old man. Except they wouldn't be singing the same songs. What combinations would work? If nothing additional was added, would the tech guy get the credit for matching beats/keys?
I always wanted to hear a Sade/Seal duet, and though I've no clue which songs of theirs would work for such a format, I've got to believe it's possible. Until someone with more brains and equipment than me comes along, I guess I'll have to rely on playing two CDs at the same time. It's not the same thing. In fact, it kinda sucks.
There. Now that that's out of the way, I can get to this blog.
One of my favorite musical gimmicks is simultaneous melodies. Take a singer or three and have each of them singing something independently from the others - not just harmonies, but their own parts. Think of Toad the Wet Sprocket's Butterflies, or more famously, Paul McCartney's Silly Love Songs.
At some point, I have to believe some audio-techno-wiz will figure out how to completely intertwine two songs into a new creation greater than the sum of its parts. Don't stop at solo artists or bands (as 3/4 of The Spin Doctors songs could have overlapped without anyone noticing). Instead of sampling a riff, layer entire verses. Kind of like the Duets albums featuring Frank Sinatra or Natalie Cole singing with her old man. Except they wouldn't be singing the same songs. What combinations would work? If nothing additional was added, would the tech guy get the credit for matching beats/keys?
I always wanted to hear a Sade/Seal duet, and though I've no clue which songs of theirs would work for such a format, I've got to believe it's possible. Until someone with more brains and equipment than me comes along, I guess I'll have to rely on playing two CDs at the same time. It's not the same thing. In fact, it kinda sucks.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Elevator Dynamics
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:
Actually, this would make more of a private service announcement, as no more than a dozen people will ever read this, unless one of you with too much time on your hands posts it somewhere with a broader audience, and someone within that expanded spectrum forwards it to five of his friends for fear of falling out an open window and plummeting seventeen stories to his death because he didn't know how chain letters operate. Or it could go viral. But odds are, my P in PSA stands for private.
Also, this entry would work better as a video than written words. I've intended to shoot it for a long time, but mice and men appear to have better intentions than mine, so this is what you get. If you're that desperate for the visual, then post a video of yourself reading this. Whee.
My father is an elevator mechanic, and has been for forty-plus years. I have ridden elevators for most, if not all, of my nearly thirty-nine years on this planet. In that time, I have conducted informal research about people placement that has produced irrefutable evidence. Maybe no one's refuted it because I haven't presented it aloud before. And again, because this is a written blog and not a video entry, I'm not presenting it aloud here. Suffer.
One person may stand wherever they wish in an elevator. The natural tendency is to push (in Nashville, it's often said "mash") the button for the desired floor, then step backwards until your rear touches the back wall of the elevator.
With two people, the back wall is no longer necessary. The first person should shift to the far corner of the elevator from the buttons, while the second person should take one step back, thereby avoiding sharing a plane or any chance of peripheral eye contact. In the event the second person is exceptionally self-conscious about their behind, they may step back all the way to the wall, but the first person need not progress forward.
If a third person enters the elevator, the first two assume both back corners and the third person stands immediately behind the doors. This should (and often does) scare the crap out of those impatient folks who try to step into an elevator car before the doors are completely open. Because they'd have to step through a person. Which is rude and socially unacceptable.
Four people, as might be conventionally expected, shift to the four corners of the elevator. All eyes look forward, even for the front two who have little to see beyond the buttons and weight capacity warnings.
The fifth person should proceed directly to the middle of the back wall and instruct person #3 (now locked into the operator role) which floor to push.
Any number beyond five becomes a crowd with no rhyme, reason, or order. Ignoring the logic of dominoes, which would maximize weight distribution, people will tend to surge toward whoever smells the least offensive.
Note: All the positions described above deal with strangers and lose meaning when the riders know each other. In such a scenario, clusters form and sight lines etiquette is abandoned, favoring views of one another rather than the doors or front wall. In the event an elevator has four or more acquaintances aboard when the doors open, potential passengers may bypass joining in favor of a car full of strangers.
Mirrored elevators, though stylish (and hard to keep clean), will let you see when you have a piece of food stuck between your teeth. Please, if this occurs, remember: you're on an elevator and not in a bathroom. Close your lips, wait for your stop, then get to a bathroom before trying to floss with sideways fingernails. Thank you.
Actually, this would make more of a private service announcement, as no more than a dozen people will ever read this, unless one of you with too much time on your hands posts it somewhere with a broader audience, and someone within that expanded spectrum forwards it to five of his friends for fear of falling out an open window and plummeting seventeen stories to his death because he didn't know how chain letters operate. Or it could go viral. But odds are, my P in PSA stands for private.
Also, this entry would work better as a video than written words. I've intended to shoot it for a long time, but mice and men appear to have better intentions than mine, so this is what you get. If you're that desperate for the visual, then post a video of yourself reading this. Whee.
My father is an elevator mechanic, and has been for forty-plus years. I have ridden elevators for most, if not all, of my nearly thirty-nine years on this planet. In that time, I have conducted informal research about people placement that has produced irrefutable evidence. Maybe no one's refuted it because I haven't presented it aloud before. And again, because this is a written blog and not a video entry, I'm not presenting it aloud here. Suffer.
One person may stand wherever they wish in an elevator. The natural tendency is to push (in Nashville, it's often said "mash") the button for the desired floor, then step backwards until your rear touches the back wall of the elevator.
With two people, the back wall is no longer necessary. The first person should shift to the far corner of the elevator from the buttons, while the second person should take one step back, thereby avoiding sharing a plane or any chance of peripheral eye contact. In the event the second person is exceptionally self-conscious about their behind, they may step back all the way to the wall, but the first person need not progress forward.
If a third person enters the elevator, the first two assume both back corners and the third person stands immediately behind the doors. This should (and often does) scare the crap out of those impatient folks who try to step into an elevator car before the doors are completely open. Because they'd have to step through a person. Which is rude and socially unacceptable.
Four people, as might be conventionally expected, shift to the four corners of the elevator. All eyes look forward, even for the front two who have little to see beyond the buttons and weight capacity warnings.
The fifth person should proceed directly to the middle of the back wall and instruct person #3 (now locked into the operator role) which floor to push.
Any number beyond five becomes a crowd with no rhyme, reason, or order. Ignoring the logic of dominoes, which would maximize weight distribution, people will tend to surge toward whoever smells the least offensive.
Note: All the positions described above deal with strangers and lose meaning when the riders know each other. In such a scenario, clusters form and sight lines etiquette is abandoned, favoring views of one another rather than the doors or front wall. In the event an elevator has four or more acquaintances aboard when the doors open, potential passengers may bypass joining in favor of a car full of strangers.
Mirrored elevators, though stylish (and hard to keep clean), will let you see when you have a piece of food stuck between your teeth. Please, if this occurs, remember: you're on an elevator and not in a bathroom. Close your lips, wait for your stop, then get to a bathroom before trying to floss with sideways fingernails. Thank you.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Suck It Up
Today's lesson deals with industry, marketing, and consumerism. So take a moment to follow Booger's advice and buck up, little campers. Put on your thinking caps, then take 'em off because I'm about to expand your minds until they explode. Could get messy.
Somewhere, it's someone's job to decide how many plies paper towels should have. Should they be single-side-patterned, or is it worthwhile to invest the capital for machinery that can print calico cats, flowers or birds on top and bottom? Does it matter which side of a single-ply towel do we wipe with? Would the quilted side absorb more with it's increased surface area? (Increased surface area is the primary reason Froot Loops get soggy before Trix, but I can't figure out why similarly hooped cereals - Cheerios, for example - don't get mushy so quickly.)
Is there a specific department at Bounty where testers stretch single paper towels while other people drop potatoes on them for fiber/tactile strength? Is there a factory standard on how much water to soak a towel in before it qualifies as distressed? Why hasn't someone invented a paper towel that increases in strength the wetter it gets? Might executives fear a technological accident which bequeaths sentience on the paper towel? What would happen if it lived near an ocean? How many fish would have to die before manufacturers decided it wasn't worth conducting their freakish Frankensteinian experiments?
Conversely, some paper towel makers find it satisfactory to package anything, regardless of how liquid-repellent it may be. We've all experienced spills where we try to sweep up juice, only to push it around the table as if the towel we were using was some kind of squeegee. Is there a minimum requirement for suckuptitude? What about a warning label that strongly recommends users of such lame towels only use them outdoors? Wouldn't that make more sense for the Brawny lumberjack? I don't want that dude walking across my kitchen in those boots. Mercy.
Meanwhile, the potential for soft paper towels hasn't been explored. It's all about clean up. Tissues have the same deal - wimpy varieties can't endure a single sneeze, whereas extra-strength, heavy-duty phlegm rags rival handkerchiefs and could go several rounds before being thrown out. Is it worth paying an extra couple dollars for the ability to deposit more snot?
Quick recap: paper towels need to be absorbent. Tissues and toilet paper need to be soft. But what of napkins? Is it about time we take matters into our own hands, slice shamwows into four-inch squares, and store them everywhere?
No matter what conventional wisdom may be, I still say Porsche as a one-syllable word.
Somewhere, it's someone's job to decide how many plies paper towels should have. Should they be single-side-patterned, or is it worthwhile to invest the capital for machinery that can print calico cats, flowers or birds on top and bottom? Does it matter which side of a single-ply towel do we wipe with? Would the quilted side absorb more with it's increased surface area? (Increased surface area is the primary reason Froot Loops get soggy before Trix, but I can't figure out why similarly hooped cereals - Cheerios, for example - don't get mushy so quickly.)
Is there a specific department at Bounty where testers stretch single paper towels while other people drop potatoes on them for fiber/tactile strength? Is there a factory standard on how much water to soak a towel in before it qualifies as distressed? Why hasn't someone invented a paper towel that increases in strength the wetter it gets? Might executives fear a technological accident which bequeaths sentience on the paper towel? What would happen if it lived near an ocean? How many fish would have to die before manufacturers decided it wasn't worth conducting their freakish Frankensteinian experiments?
Conversely, some paper towel makers find it satisfactory to package anything, regardless of how liquid-repellent it may be. We've all experienced spills where we try to sweep up juice, only to push it around the table as if the towel we were using was some kind of squeegee. Is there a minimum requirement for suckuptitude? What about a warning label that strongly recommends users of such lame towels only use them outdoors? Wouldn't that make more sense for the Brawny lumberjack? I don't want that dude walking across my kitchen in those boots. Mercy.
Meanwhile, the potential for soft paper towels hasn't been explored. It's all about clean up. Tissues have the same deal - wimpy varieties can't endure a single sneeze, whereas extra-strength, heavy-duty phlegm rags rival handkerchiefs and could go several rounds before being thrown out. Is it worth paying an extra couple dollars for the ability to deposit more snot?
Quick recap: paper towels need to be absorbent. Tissues and toilet paper need to be soft. But what of napkins? Is it about time we take matters into our own hands, slice shamwows into four-inch squares, and store them everywhere?
No matter what conventional wisdom may be, I still say Porsche as a one-syllable word.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Questioning of Sacredness in Books
As mentioned last week, I was given David Dark's book, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. Thus far, I've read one chapter and listened to another on mp3. Thank God for technology, though I'm continually rediscovering how shallow I must be.
I'm not dumb. I don't know the guts of a computer or which part of my Geo's engine is the carbeurator (nor do I know how to spell carborator, though if I try carbureator enough times, I might get carbuerator right once). I never had much for musical aptitude, and the intricacies of finer arts (opera, ballet) completely elude me (for which I have no complaints).
I feared I'd have to reread page after page, and now that I'm two chapters in, I fear that I'll have to relisten and relisten. Ugh. My mind apparently operates on a lower plane. Or a bus.
Is it possible to be intelligent and not intellectual? I grasp the book's assertion that religion is how I live, and if someone wants to know the way I believe, they need only hear and see my words and actions throughout the course of a day. Kinda makes me feel crummy, and some perverse motivation stems from that to see if later in the book I'll find some method of feeling better. Which isn't why the book is written. Thankfully, the author intersperses Michael Scott and Homer Simpson between Kafka and Salman Rushdie. Unfortunately, my brain can only wrap around the former. Have I been so diluted by society and the lack of learning that I can't open my mind enough to encompass these higher thoughts?
Do I want to? Nope. Not really.
The better part of the last three years of my life have been devoted to the idea of simplification. Less may not be more, but it is better. Easier. And then I throw grand concepts like religiosity in? What the hell am I [not] thinking?
I expect this will become one of those books I recommend to smart people without ever reading it myself. I'll listen to the end, bitter or not. I'll hold out hope that I'll find inspiration. But I'm mostly happy staying dumb. I'm smart that way.
I'm not dumb. I don't know the guts of a computer or which part of my Geo's engine is the carbeurator (nor do I know how to spell carborator, though if I try carbureator enough times, I might get carbuerator right once). I never had much for musical aptitude, and the intricacies of finer arts (opera, ballet) completely elude me (for which I have no complaints).
I feared I'd have to reread page after page, and now that I'm two chapters in, I fear that I'll have to relisten and relisten. Ugh. My mind apparently operates on a lower plane. Or a bus.
Is it possible to be intelligent and not intellectual? I grasp the book's assertion that religion is how I live, and if someone wants to know the way I believe, they need only hear and see my words and actions throughout the course of a day. Kinda makes me feel crummy, and some perverse motivation stems from that to see if later in the book I'll find some method of feeling better. Which isn't why the book is written. Thankfully, the author intersperses Michael Scott and Homer Simpson between Kafka and Salman Rushdie. Unfortunately, my brain can only wrap around the former. Have I been so diluted by society and the lack of learning that I can't open my mind enough to encompass these higher thoughts?
Do I want to? Nope. Not really.
The better part of the last three years of my life have been devoted to the idea of simplification. Less may not be more, but it is better. Easier. And then I throw grand concepts like religiosity in? What the hell am I [not] thinking?
I expect this will become one of those books I recommend to smart people without ever reading it myself. I'll listen to the end, bitter or not. I'll hold out hope that I'll find inspiration. But I'm mostly happy staying dumb. I'm smart that way.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Treasures in Heaven
Pardon my brief serious turn. I may have scribbled something concerning this before, but it's weighed heavy on my mind (and I'm not merely referring to my new, lead-infused toupee).
I've heard preachers discuss treasures in heaven. The concept is Scriptural; Jesus himself mentions them in Matthew 6. If heaven is supposed to be a perfect place where bodies no longer exist, what are these treasures he's referring to? I understand the idea of not hoarding during this earthly life, and I consistently strive to unload excess crap from my house, my life, my schedule. But the treasures in heaven - are they fond memories of our mortal coils? What kind of connection do we retain to the prior-life once the afterlife becomes the current life? Will there be any identity? We don't carry our bodies with us, but will our spirits have individual traits? Will I recognize those who've passed before me? Will I want to?
It's a strange motivation to long to store up treasures in heaven. Makes it sound like some people will have a better heavenly deal than others. Would that create jealousy? Because my understanding of heaven is a place beyond superiority/inferiority/status. Will I have a further commute down the golden roads in order to see the amusement park that is Godland?
So my vision of heaven is screwy. Will the blind see and the deaf hear? Would they want to? With our agelessness and eternal health, will we merely stand in awe washed in the glory of God? How could that not be sufficient, regardless of how much treasure we have (or have not) stored up?
Why burden earthy good deeds with heavenly rewards? It's not me who does them, but Christ who is in me. So are all the treasures going to Christ? Isn't HE the reward to begin with?
I'm happy that I can't take it with me - even if "it" is everything. There's a liberating freedom that accompanies Philippians 4:11-12, amplified by verse 13. I'd like to think that when my soul ascends to heaven, I'll have everything. Just like every other soul there. No more, no less.
If any of you have a better comprehension of the whole treasures in heaven bit, by all means, enlighten me. Please.
I've heard preachers discuss treasures in heaven. The concept is Scriptural; Jesus himself mentions them in Matthew 6. If heaven is supposed to be a perfect place where bodies no longer exist, what are these treasures he's referring to? I understand the idea of not hoarding during this earthly life, and I consistently strive to unload excess crap from my house, my life, my schedule. But the treasures in heaven - are they fond memories of our mortal coils? What kind of connection do we retain to the prior-life once the afterlife becomes the current life? Will there be any identity? We don't carry our bodies with us, but will our spirits have individual traits? Will I recognize those who've passed before me? Will I want to?
It's a strange motivation to long to store up treasures in heaven. Makes it sound like some people will have a better heavenly deal than others. Would that create jealousy? Because my understanding of heaven is a place beyond superiority/inferiority/status. Will I have a further commute down the golden roads in order to see the amusement park that is Godland?
So my vision of heaven is screwy. Will the blind see and the deaf hear? Would they want to? With our agelessness and eternal health, will we merely stand in awe washed in the glory of God? How could that not be sufficient, regardless of how much treasure we have (or have not) stored up?
Why burden earthy good deeds with heavenly rewards? It's not me who does them, but Christ who is in me. So are all the treasures going to Christ? Isn't HE the reward to begin with?
I'm happy that I can't take it with me - even if "it" is everything. There's a liberating freedom that accompanies Philippians 4:11-12, amplified by verse 13. I'd like to think that when my soul ascends to heaven, I'll have everything. Just like every other soul there. No more, no less.
If any of you have a better comprehension of the whole treasures in heaven bit, by all means, enlighten me. Please.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Best. Quarterback. Ever.
This stemmed from an emailed conversation with a friend and fellow football fanatic yesterday. I could put something different together today, but I won't. So there.
Hmm. How to decide the best quarterback ever? Isn't that like deciding the best kind of cheese?
You have your usual suspects of the retired: Montana, Elway, Marino. Elway only won the big one when Terrell Davis played and he had a running game. Marino never had the run support. Montana was surrounded with possibly the best offense in a new West Coast offense that no one knew how to scheme against. All three showed heart and poise. Elway's helicopter in the Superbowl epitomized grit. Marino was faster than Billy the Kid. For Montana, the game moved in slow motion. All were joys to watch.
I never saw Staubach, Stabler or Bradshaw play outside of highlight reels. And if you're only showing highlights, Archie Manning and Mark Rypien could be all-time greats. I'm not qualified to judge them, so I won't.
Jim Kelly didn't get a nod? System Q? So were most of the others. You can have a Formula One race car, but if you can't drive the thing, it crashes into a wall. Just sayin'.
Then you get into the modern arguments. Michael Vick (Jesus Jr.) was supposed to revolutionize the position, evolving what was known as a thrower's game into a scrambler's paradise. Um... no. Again, I never saw much of Fran Tarkenton (or Elway in his fleet-feet days), but I'm giving the best scrambling Q award to Randall Cunningham. Again: always a joy to watch. Once, he quick kicked for 70+ yards. Another time, the Eagles needed a kickoff runback touchdown to win the game; who was back there? Cunningham. Really.
And where's Steve Young? The man did everything that was asked of him and then some. Yes, he inherited the Niners, but he could've potentially gotten a ring or two that Montana had if he wasn't waiting to get into the game. Case in point: the Niners let Montana go. And no one complained.
No love for Kurt Warner? Another system product, sure, but he could thread the ball through tiny windows. Then again, if you want to know why he did better in St. Lou and Arizona then he did in the big apple, look at who was catching the ball. More appropriately, trying to catch the ball. Class act, brought two epically crappy organizations to a total of three superbowls and won one.
Brett Favre - unquestionably has the enjoyment factor. I remember his "toke a doobie" audible, where he looked to his wideouts, puffed an imaginary joint, then threw a bomb for a touchdown. Classic moment. Legendary in Green Bay as the all-time cold weather Q, though he's soiled that reputation quite a bit. He'd be better if he'd hung it up two seasons ago before the Jets debacle. Not interested in his incredible numbers this year before the fade; a season is 16 games. You want to be MVP of Sep-Nov, more power to you.
Weren't the big two Brady and Manning? And now, where's Brady? Moss backpedalled, which didn't help his performance this year, but he still had Welker. Undeniably a great leader who has the knack to rally his troops. But is he the same jackass as Belicheck? Wasn't it him running up the score as much as the coach? A three-time SB winner who brought the word "dynasty" back in the salary cap era - that's gotta count for something. Great touch. Hot wife.
And now Drew Brees enters the discussion, though it's a bit premature for "best ever" status.
Which is exactly the same thing I have to say about Manning. I expect he'll be renowned as the best quarterback to ever play the game. It's not merely his commitment to film study and game mechanics. He drops deep bombs with angelic precision. He knows opposing defenses better than their coordinators. He reads blitzes and almost always makes the right call. His Achilles heel has been a penchance to choke in big spots, but I doubt this was his last Superbowl run. Time will tell if the Colts were Barry Switzer's Cowboys, but I doubt it. Manning will keep the offense churning, and so long as the defense doesn't cank them out of the playoffs, they should have another 3-5 shots at rings with him at the helm. Dude never takes a real hit.
My claim that he's a stat hog remains. I don't care for his ubercompetitiveness, but that's the way he is. I think the Colts should've run the ball much more - Addai was on his way to a SB MVP until Peyton decided he didn't want to share the glory. I couldn't've been happier to see the pick-n-collapse, even if there was a debatably illegal block in the quarter-back during the return. He lost his cool. And the team followed suit.
When Manning hangs it up, I imagine he'll have a second ring (three seems a bit much), most-if-not-all of the passing records, a first-ballot trip to Canton, and a commentator's desk. He's a freak of nature who was bred to be the ideal quarterback and overperformed expectations. He's that good.
For the time being, I'm going to give the Greatest Quarterback Ever trophy to Joe Montana for one reason: he made it look easy. Marino, Elway, Favre, and the lot - they usually looked like they were striving to achieve their goals. Montana was smooth and effortless. Not the strongest arm, not the quickest delivery, not the best mover. I can't promise if you threw any of them under center on their counterparts' teams, they would or wouldn't have performed as well. I was never a Niners fan. But I always respected Montana.
I realize people say "fears" now instead of "respects." What quarterback would you fear coming on the field down by 5 points with 30 seconds left to play? Sure, that designation fits Manning, Brady, even Favre to some point. Players may not have feared Montana. They often resigned that it was over.
When Manning retires, I'll most likely transfer the "Greatest" title to him. He'll need at least one more ring to prove he can still win the big one. Until then, he's the Terminator of quarterbacks: a robot programmed to dissect and decimate opposing defenses. And as much as I don't respect his stathogging, I must recognize his talent.
Hmm. How to decide the best quarterback ever? Isn't that like deciding the best kind of cheese?
You have your usual suspects of the retired: Montana, Elway, Marino. Elway only won the big one when Terrell Davis played and he had a running game. Marino never had the run support. Montana was surrounded with possibly the best offense in a new West Coast offense that no one knew how to scheme against. All three showed heart and poise. Elway's helicopter in the Superbowl epitomized grit. Marino was faster than Billy the Kid. For Montana, the game moved in slow motion. All were joys to watch.
I never saw Staubach, Stabler or Bradshaw play outside of highlight reels. And if you're only showing highlights, Archie Manning and Mark Rypien could be all-time greats. I'm not qualified to judge them, so I won't.
Jim Kelly didn't get a nod? System Q? So were most of the others. You can have a Formula One race car, but if you can't drive the thing, it crashes into a wall. Just sayin'.
Then you get into the modern arguments. Michael Vick (Jesus Jr.) was supposed to revolutionize the position, evolving what was known as a thrower's game into a scrambler's paradise. Um... no. Again, I never saw much of Fran Tarkenton (or Elway in his fleet-feet days), but I'm giving the best scrambling Q award to Randall Cunningham. Again: always a joy to watch. Once, he quick kicked for 70+ yards. Another time, the Eagles needed a kickoff runback touchdown to win the game; who was back there? Cunningham. Really.
And where's Steve Young? The man did everything that was asked of him and then some. Yes, he inherited the Niners, but he could've potentially gotten a ring or two that Montana had if he wasn't waiting to get into the game. Case in point: the Niners let Montana go. And no one complained.
No love for Kurt Warner? Another system product, sure, but he could thread the ball through tiny windows. Then again, if you want to know why he did better in St. Lou and Arizona then he did in the big apple, look at who was catching the ball. More appropriately, trying to catch the ball. Class act, brought two epically crappy organizations to a total of three superbowls and won one.
Brett Favre - unquestionably has the enjoyment factor. I remember his "toke a doobie" audible, where he looked to his wideouts, puffed an imaginary joint, then threw a bomb for a touchdown. Classic moment. Legendary in Green Bay as the all-time cold weather Q, though he's soiled that reputation quite a bit. He'd be better if he'd hung it up two seasons ago before the Jets debacle. Not interested in his incredible numbers this year before the fade; a season is 16 games. You want to be MVP of Sep-Nov, more power to you.
Weren't the big two Brady and Manning? And now, where's Brady? Moss backpedalled, which didn't help his performance this year, but he still had Welker. Undeniably a great leader who has the knack to rally his troops. But is he the same jackass as Belicheck? Wasn't it him running up the score as much as the coach? A three-time SB winner who brought the word "dynasty" back in the salary cap era - that's gotta count for something. Great touch. Hot wife.
And now Drew Brees enters the discussion, though it's a bit premature for "best ever" status.
Which is exactly the same thing I have to say about Manning. I expect he'll be renowned as the best quarterback to ever play the game. It's not merely his commitment to film study and game mechanics. He drops deep bombs with angelic precision. He knows opposing defenses better than their coordinators. He reads blitzes and almost always makes the right call. His Achilles heel has been a penchance to choke in big spots, but I doubt this was his last Superbowl run. Time will tell if the Colts were Barry Switzer's Cowboys, but I doubt it. Manning will keep the offense churning, and so long as the defense doesn't cank them out of the playoffs, they should have another 3-5 shots at rings with him at the helm. Dude never takes a real hit.
My claim that he's a stat hog remains. I don't care for his ubercompetitiveness, but that's the way he is. I think the Colts should've run the ball much more - Addai was on his way to a SB MVP until Peyton decided he didn't want to share the glory. I couldn't've been happier to see the pick-n-collapse, even if there was a debatably illegal block in the quarter-back during the return. He lost his cool. And the team followed suit.
When Manning hangs it up, I imagine he'll have a second ring (three seems a bit much), most-if-not-all of the passing records, a first-ballot trip to Canton, and a commentator's desk. He's a freak of nature who was bred to be the ideal quarterback and overperformed expectations. He's that good.
For the time being, I'm going to give the Greatest Quarterback Ever trophy to Joe Montana for one reason: he made it look easy. Marino, Elway, Favre, and the lot - they usually looked like they were striving to achieve their goals. Montana was smooth and effortless. Not the strongest arm, not the quickest delivery, not the best mover. I can't promise if you threw any of them under center on their counterparts' teams, they would or wouldn't have performed as well. I was never a Niners fan. But I always respected Montana.
I realize people say "fears" now instead of "respects." What quarterback would you fear coming on the field down by 5 points with 30 seconds left to play? Sure, that designation fits Manning, Brady, even Favre to some point. Players may not have feared Montana. They often resigned that it was over.
When Manning retires, I'll most likely transfer the "Greatest" title to him. He'll need at least one more ring to prove he can still win the big one. Until then, he's the Terminator of quarterbacks: a robot programmed to dissect and decimate opposing defenses. And as much as I don't respect his stathogging, I must recognize his talent.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Failstravaganza
My day:
1. Wake up to alarm clock which claims it's 6:30. Subtract 21 minutes to calculate true time, as I intentionally set it differently at least once a week to throw myself off. Hope I didn't set it backward by accident. Hit snooze.
2. Wake up at 6:39 (a.k.a. 6:18). Hit snooze alarm and spent next four minutes debating whether to get out of bed. The nice, cozy, warm bed. Next to my beautiful wife. In favor of a cold room and getting ready for work? Not a difficult debate.
3. Fall asleep at 6:47. Get pissed at my clock for waking me up one minute later. Hit snooze alarm, decide it's best to arrive on time to work. Turn off clock. Remove CPAP. Remove heavy blanket. Shiver. Silently grumble.
4. Start shower water. Start sink water to soak CPAP mask. Make water. Flush.
5. Take shower. Figure out what day of the week it is, and whether I shampooed yesterday. Shave. Shampoo. Soap. Rinse. No repeat. Count to ten to force myself to turn off the water.
6. Dry off. Aggravate wife by turning on closet light. Internally question if she gets more annoyed by me turning on light or wearing navy shirts with black pants. Get dressed.
7. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Brush deodorant. No, that's not right. Smear deodorant. Better.
8. Pour cereal for boys. Pour one kind of milk in Justin's cup, but not in his bowl; pour different milk in Shu's bowl and cup. Decide to earn brownie points by restocking inside fridge with milk from garage fridge, so Les won't have to go into the garage barefoot. Wish I put my socks on. Realize I never get brownie points for stupid stuff like this. Reevaluate concept of brownie points.
9. Carry Justin to kitchen and deposit him in his chair. Giggle at Shu's bedhead. Hugs and kisses for both. Sparkling smiles in response. Beam with pride at fathering good boys.
10. Startle from Scooter banging on his bedroom door. Open it, pour him cereal and milk.
11. Gently kiss my gorgeous wife to inform her I'm leaving.
12. Drive to work. Fidget with sketchy radio, listen to bad pop songs for fear of losing all reception should I change the station.
13. Park in stadium lot. Walk 1.3 miles across lot and pedestrian bridge in sub-freezing temperature and blustery winds. Compile mental checklist of potential accomplishments. Forget most of them by the time I reach the office.
14. Oatmeal. No danish. No hot cocoa. No soda. Trying to eat healthy. Disbelieving my ability to make it through a single day.
15. Read comics. Laugh. Surf internet (whiskerino.org, 700level.com, wcdgc.com, avclub.com). Procrastinate. Handle small work jobs.
16. Glimpse sun. Feel warmth that doesn't compare to warmth I had in bed. Rue.
17. Finish stupid blog entry to attempt real writing for the day. It's now 9:15. I could probably split up my day into over 100 entries like these, but I'd rather have #18 as "finish Abe," the short story I've agonized over for months.
I could really use a danish. Or eight.
1. Wake up to alarm clock which claims it's 6:30. Subtract 21 minutes to calculate true time, as I intentionally set it differently at least once a week to throw myself off. Hope I didn't set it backward by accident. Hit snooze.
2. Wake up at 6:39 (a.k.a. 6:18). Hit snooze alarm and spent next four minutes debating whether to get out of bed. The nice, cozy, warm bed. Next to my beautiful wife. In favor of a cold room and getting ready for work? Not a difficult debate.
3. Fall asleep at 6:47. Get pissed at my clock for waking me up one minute later. Hit snooze alarm, decide it's best to arrive on time to work. Turn off clock. Remove CPAP. Remove heavy blanket. Shiver. Silently grumble.
4. Start shower water. Start sink water to soak CPAP mask. Make water. Flush.
5. Take shower. Figure out what day of the week it is, and whether I shampooed yesterday. Shave. Shampoo. Soap. Rinse. No repeat. Count to ten to force myself to turn off the water.
6. Dry off. Aggravate wife by turning on closet light. Internally question if she gets more annoyed by me turning on light or wearing navy shirts with black pants. Get dressed.
7. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Brush deodorant. No, that's not right. Smear deodorant. Better.
8. Pour cereal for boys. Pour one kind of milk in Justin's cup, but not in his bowl; pour different milk in Shu's bowl and cup. Decide to earn brownie points by restocking inside fridge with milk from garage fridge, so Les won't have to go into the garage barefoot. Wish I put my socks on. Realize I never get brownie points for stupid stuff like this. Reevaluate concept of brownie points.
9. Carry Justin to kitchen and deposit him in his chair. Giggle at Shu's bedhead. Hugs and kisses for both. Sparkling smiles in response. Beam with pride at fathering good boys.
10. Startle from Scooter banging on his bedroom door. Open it, pour him cereal and milk.
11. Gently kiss my gorgeous wife to inform her I'm leaving.
12. Drive to work. Fidget with sketchy radio, listen to bad pop songs for fear of losing all reception should I change the station.
13. Park in stadium lot. Walk 1.3 miles across lot and pedestrian bridge in sub-freezing temperature and blustery winds. Compile mental checklist of potential accomplishments. Forget most of them by the time I reach the office.
14. Oatmeal. No danish. No hot cocoa. No soda. Trying to eat healthy. Disbelieving my ability to make it through a single day.
15. Read comics. Laugh. Surf internet (whiskerino.org, 700level.com, wcdgc.com, avclub.com). Procrastinate. Handle small work jobs.
16. Glimpse sun. Feel warmth that doesn't compare to warmth I had in bed. Rue.
17. Finish stupid blog entry to attempt real writing for the day. It's now 9:15. I could probably split up my day into over 100 entries like these, but I'd rather have #18 as "finish Abe," the short story I've agonized over for months.
I could really use a danish. Or eight.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Boobs
I used to joke that I thanked God every day that I wasn't born a woman. I wasn't completely joking, as I can't imagine how poor a job I'd do without my Y chromosome.
I can't imagine living with boobs. It may be difficult on observers' eyes watching my belly bounce while I sprint across a field or down a court, but I don't feel the bouncing. Nor do I wear any girdle to keep my gut from smacking me elsewhere. While I'd probably get used to working a clasp behind my back, the last thing I'd want is to match colors so the straps don't show through my shirts (blouses?). I make no attempt to color-coordinate my underwear now - clean is good enough for me. (Of course, if I don't alter my diet over the next few years, I'll most likely develop moobs. Meh.)
I'd have to go sans makeup, even for formal occasions. There've been only a handful of times when I thought women looked more attractive wearing facepaint. Maybe more women apply it better and I simply don't recognize the facial art they've done. What of base and cover-up? Screw it. I wouldn't pay for the products, I sure as hell wouldn't use them, and if that meant I could never drive a Mary Kay pink Cadillac, so be it.
I hate shaving enough as is when it's only my face. The idea of a razor nick in my armpit gives me the willies. I guess I could live in Europe? (Do Brits shave their legs?)
Many authors have written about the joys of giving birth. Thanks. Pass. I've been carrying this excess weight around my midsection for far longer than nine months, and while a sudden purge would be nice, it's not worth the agony. Plus, there's menstruation, hormones, society-imposed body-image issues....
Put all of it together, and the detriments vastly outweigh the benefits of having boobs. God bless you, women everywhere. I don't know how you do it. And I don't want to.
I can't imagine living with boobs. It may be difficult on observers' eyes watching my belly bounce while I sprint across a field or down a court, but I don't feel the bouncing. Nor do I wear any girdle to keep my gut from smacking me elsewhere. While I'd probably get used to working a clasp behind my back, the last thing I'd want is to match colors so the straps don't show through my shirts (blouses?). I make no attempt to color-coordinate my underwear now - clean is good enough for me. (Of course, if I don't alter my diet over the next few years, I'll most likely develop moobs. Meh.)
I'd have to go sans makeup, even for formal occasions. There've been only a handful of times when I thought women looked more attractive wearing facepaint. Maybe more women apply it better and I simply don't recognize the facial art they've done. What of base and cover-up? Screw it. I wouldn't pay for the products, I sure as hell wouldn't use them, and if that meant I could never drive a Mary Kay pink Cadillac, so be it.
I hate shaving enough as is when it's only my face. The idea of a razor nick in my armpit gives me the willies. I guess I could live in Europe? (Do Brits shave their legs?)
Many authors have written about the joys of giving birth. Thanks. Pass. I've been carrying this excess weight around my midsection for far longer than nine months, and while a sudden purge would be nice, it's not worth the agony. Plus, there's menstruation, hormones, society-imposed body-image issues....
Put all of it together, and the detriments vastly outweigh the benefits of having boobs. God bless you, women everywhere. I don't know how you do it. And I don't want to.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Book Club
There's a sketch about a book club where some guy in full eskimo gear beats the crap out of some hardback with a photo of a baby seal on it. Actually, there's not a skit and the more I think about it, the less I think it'd be worth making one. Just as well.
A friend I've not seen in years has now authored three books. Catching up with him was great, and he refused to let me leave without a copy of his latest, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. (Douglas Adams may have used the same title for an entirely different work.) It's heavy reading, which is to say I have to read one page, reread it, and sometimes try a third run before digesting its meaning. I tend to be a fast reader, so thick text like this frustrates me. Even so, I intend to make a genuine effort to read the booger. (Probably the only time Dave's book will be referred to as "the booger".) Another friend informed me he has the audio version of the book, so I'm hoping I can get my hands on it and listen to it repeatedly. No clue if it'll sink in any better that way. I'm more of an experential learner. Which is to say I know very little.
Besides Dave's book, I'm also reading a few others:
Every Man's Marriage, which is kind of a sequel to Every Man's Struggle. I'm 130 pages into the 275-pager, and Les and I would both be happier if I completed it and put the plans of action into less plans and more actions. EMM somewhat inspired me to write Decade Old Diary, though I've lacked the inspiration to pick EMM up since then. Hmm.
Max Lucado's Cure for the Common Life (on page 37 of 210). Would I consider my life common? Will the recent sickness in my house, was I more attracted by the word "Cure?" Should Robert Smith have written the forward? This is more the quick-n-easy coffee table spiritual theology read I'm comfortable with, and it's possibly the one I'll finish first. Once I finally, y'know, devote any time to reading.
And Here's the Kicker, a collection of interviews with comedy writers by Mike Sacks (page 149 of 335). Similar to The First Time I Got Paid for It, a collection of essays by established Hollywood scriptwriters, I find these somehow motivating. And mostly frustrating.
I feel like I'm reading fiction somewhere as well, but I can't remember where or what. Ah well. There's always the comics.
A friend I've not seen in years has now authored three books. Catching up with him was great, and he refused to let me leave without a copy of his latest, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. (Douglas Adams may have used the same title for an entirely different work.) It's heavy reading, which is to say I have to read one page, reread it, and sometimes try a third run before digesting its meaning. I tend to be a fast reader, so thick text like this frustrates me. Even so, I intend to make a genuine effort to read the booger. (Probably the only time Dave's book will be referred to as "the booger".) Another friend informed me he has the audio version of the book, so I'm hoping I can get my hands on it and listen to it repeatedly. No clue if it'll sink in any better that way. I'm more of an experential learner. Which is to say I know very little.
Besides Dave's book, I'm also reading a few others:
Every Man's Marriage, which is kind of a sequel to Every Man's Struggle. I'm 130 pages into the 275-pager, and Les and I would both be happier if I completed it and put the plans of action into less plans and more actions. EMM somewhat inspired me to write Decade Old Diary, though I've lacked the inspiration to pick EMM up since then. Hmm.
Max Lucado's Cure for the Common Life (on page 37 of 210). Would I consider my life common? Will the recent sickness in my house, was I more attracted by the word "Cure?" Should Robert Smith have written the forward? This is more the quick-n-easy coffee table spiritual theology read I'm comfortable with, and it's possibly the one I'll finish first. Once I finally, y'know, devote any time to reading.
And Here's the Kicker, a collection of interviews with comedy writers by Mike Sacks (page 149 of 335). Similar to The First Time I Got Paid for It, a collection of essays by established Hollywood scriptwriters, I find these somehow motivating. And mostly frustrating.
I feel like I'm reading fiction somewhere as well, but I can't remember where or what. Ah well. There's always the comics.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Stretch-n-Retch
Yoga kicked my ass yesterday.
Technically, it wasn't yoga - it was some Pilates/Yoga/aerobic merger whose sole intent is to exhaust energy, cause pain and remind me to "keep breathing." Because, y'know, if you're not breathing properly, all of your exercise will be for naught. I would've loved to breathe. But the best way to make sure I was breathing properly was to stop the activity. While my body is bent in half and contorted sideways, it's hard to collect oxygen in my compromised lungs. Frankly, there were multiple occasions/positions where I'd've been perfectly happy if I stopped breathing and passed out.
As I struggled to lift my arms after the workout, it dawned on me how I play so many sports and yet my arms never get tired doing those. Which means these drills are forcing me to use muscles I don't use otherwise. What's the point? Will these help me chuck a disc golf drive farther? I don't need to launch basketball bricks harder than I do; touch is far more important. So why am I strengthening these areas if the only thing they do is hurt after I strengthen them? I'm missing the point. And it's not like I had much motivation to begin with.
I've also determined that my core is weak. At the middle of this Tootsie Pop is not a chocolate center; it's more like a rice cake. Brittle and fragile. One option is to increase the regularity of workouts to build my core into some rock-hard foundation of my being. Methinks I'll chose the alternative: layer on the insulation, so my core never gets exposed. My core should get stronger simply from carrying around the excess blubber, no? There's a workout _and_ a diet regimen I could support!
One thing all workout videos should include is a countdown clock. Don't tell me "Three more, two more, one more," then proceed directly into the next motion. That's crap. Put a digital timer in a corner of the screen, so I know I've got 11:42 before I can turn off the television and collapse (not necessarily in that order). I don't care where I'm at - I want to know how far away the finish line is. Someone get on that.
Lastly, I tried to determine what makes an exercise video watchable. Sure, well-structured women in spandex is a good start. (For those of you who'd call me sexist, consider the alternative - fat dudes in sweats?) Add some surreal techno crap music with beats for lunges, crunches, and downward dogs. But how do they decide the leader? Is it the one person who can talk through it without huffing? Are there B-movie caliber workout tapes? What makes one more inspiring to complete than another? Celebrity? Skin? Both? How many physical therapist/actresses are there who aspire to someday be the next workout video queen? Is that something young girls want? "When I grow up, I want to be a princess/ballerina/Denise Austin."
Technically, it wasn't yoga - it was some Pilates/Yoga/aerobic merger whose sole intent is to exhaust energy, cause pain and remind me to "keep breathing." Because, y'know, if you're not breathing properly, all of your exercise will be for naught. I would've loved to breathe. But the best way to make sure I was breathing properly was to stop the activity. While my body is bent in half and contorted sideways, it's hard to collect oxygen in my compromised lungs. Frankly, there were multiple occasions/positions where I'd've been perfectly happy if I stopped breathing and passed out.
As I struggled to lift my arms after the workout, it dawned on me how I play so many sports and yet my arms never get tired doing those. Which means these drills are forcing me to use muscles I don't use otherwise. What's the point? Will these help me chuck a disc golf drive farther? I don't need to launch basketball bricks harder than I do; touch is far more important. So why am I strengthening these areas if the only thing they do is hurt after I strengthen them? I'm missing the point. And it's not like I had much motivation to begin with.
I've also determined that my core is weak. At the middle of this Tootsie Pop is not a chocolate center; it's more like a rice cake. Brittle and fragile. One option is to increase the regularity of workouts to build my core into some rock-hard foundation of my being. Methinks I'll chose the alternative: layer on the insulation, so my core never gets exposed. My core should get stronger simply from carrying around the excess blubber, no? There's a workout _and_ a diet regimen I could support!
One thing all workout videos should include is a countdown clock. Don't tell me "Three more, two more, one more," then proceed directly into the next motion. That's crap. Put a digital timer in a corner of the screen, so I know I've got 11:42 before I can turn off the television and collapse (not necessarily in that order). I don't care where I'm at - I want to know how far away the finish line is. Someone get on that.
Lastly, I tried to determine what makes an exercise video watchable. Sure, well-structured women in spandex is a good start. (For those of you who'd call me sexist, consider the alternative - fat dudes in sweats?) Add some surreal techno crap music with beats for lunges, crunches, and downward dogs. But how do they decide the leader? Is it the one person who can talk through it without huffing? Are there B-movie caliber workout tapes? What makes one more inspiring to complete than another? Celebrity? Skin? Both? How many physical therapist/actresses are there who aspire to someday be the next workout video queen? Is that something young girls want? "When I grow up, I want to be a princess/ballerina/Denise Austin."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Miffed Riff
About one block away, at the intersection of 2nd and Broadway, a cop redirects traffic because the city is doing some sort of construction. As that's not quite close enough to distract me, they're also doing construction on the walking bridge directly below my window. I already possess sufficient distractions to hinder my concentration, but the flourescent vests, bucket-trucks, and power tools make it next to impossible to write. So I'm here, instead of finishing an overdue old idea that I desperately want to complete before a new venture.
Seeking some analogy here, I'll say the construction they're doing is completing old, unfinished work so they can dig up and blow up other areas in Nashville. Except the ratio between started projects and finished projects is somewhere in the neighborhood of 4:1. Hardly inspiring. Perhaps I should join a union.
Add to my fragile mind the annoyance of a tender pimple on my left shoulder. It's deep enough under the skin that I can't pop it and relieve the agony without jabbing my arm with a letter opener. Which probably is a pound of cure for an ounce of problem. Which some kind of forethought could've prevented. Which I didn't have. Dammit.
So I can continue this blog entry to satisfy my requisite writing for the day, except this is pseudo-writing and I don't count it toward anything. It won't be of any value until after I'm famous and/or dead, and someone digs through my old computer files and realizes I was a genius even at the enviable age of 38. Except entries like this one hardly promote my genius. So I should either create something brilliant or quit now. I bet you can guess whi
Seeking some analogy here, I'll say the construction they're doing is completing old, unfinished work so they can dig up and blow up other areas in Nashville. Except the ratio between started projects and finished projects is somewhere in the neighborhood of 4:1. Hardly inspiring. Perhaps I should join a union.
Add to my fragile mind the annoyance of a tender pimple on my left shoulder. It's deep enough under the skin that I can't pop it and relieve the agony without jabbing my arm with a letter opener. Which probably is a pound of cure for an ounce of problem. Which some kind of forethought could've prevented. Which I didn't have. Dammit.
So I can continue this blog entry to satisfy my requisite writing for the day, except this is pseudo-writing and I don't count it toward anything. It won't be of any value until after I'm famous and/or dead, and someone digs through my old computer files and realizes I was a genius even at the enviable age of 38. Except entries like this one hardly promote my genius. So I should either create something brilliant or quit now. I bet you can guess whi
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
On Again, On Again
On Blogger, I have followers. On Facebook, I have friends. On StoryMash, I have disciples. On my feet, I have wet socks. On top of spaghetti, I have cheese. On Sunday, I have church. On Dasher, I have reindeer reins. On TV, I have PBS. On tap, I have filtered water. On my tab, I have another Shirley Temple. On my nerves, I have stupid people. On the alternate pin placement at Crockett Park's #7, I have a forehand roller with an Eagle. On my desk, I have too much crap. On my schedule, I have too many obligations. On my mind, I have you - always. On the NCAA men's basketball bubble, I have no interest until March. On my Geo Prizm, I have 162,000+ miles. On the radio, I have Nickel Creek. On my face, I have scruff. On to more important things, I have plenty.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Haircut? One bit.
Writing about writing is like a barbershop mirror, where you can see your ears getting lowered for infinity. I'll assume women's hairdressers don't use the same cliches and poor jokes as most barbers, but I don't know if they substitute them with anything better than gossip. I have enough difficulty staying awake through a haircut. It isn't that the chair is comfortable. Nor is the hot buzz of clippers near my jugular vein encouraging. It could be some primal response - when I unknowingly fear something to that extent, my body shuts down and craves slumber? Dunno.
This is probably why I let my wife cut my hair now. Because there's nothing like giving a woman who has to endure me every day of our lives - FOREVER - a sharp pair of scissors and carte blanche with my head. My trims are a good opportunity for the two of us to catch up on the events of the day, what's on our minds and hearts, how we can better encourage one another, etc. I force myself to filter my words, but there are opportunities for bad jokes everywhere, and I can't keep all of them subsided. They rarely make her laugh; more importantly, she's been able to contain her anger better than I've been able to contain my snark. Thankfully, I've not been shaved bald. Yet.
As might be expected, when it was time for a different kind of snip, I shut up and let the vasectomy doctor do his job. Better drugs.
This is probably why I let my wife cut my hair now. Because there's nothing like giving a woman who has to endure me every day of our lives - FOREVER - a sharp pair of scissors and carte blanche with my head. My trims are a good opportunity for the two of us to catch up on the events of the day, what's on our minds and hearts, how we can better encourage one another, etc. I force myself to filter my words, but there are opportunities for bad jokes everywhere, and I can't keep all of them subsided. They rarely make her laugh; more importantly, she's been able to contain her anger better than I've been able to contain my snark. Thankfully, I've not been shaved bald. Yet.
As might be expected, when it was time for a different kind of snip, I shut up and let the vasectomy doctor do his job. Better drugs.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Derailing the Spiral Staircase
There aren't enough extreme sports that feature ladders. Really, for all the hype about how dangerous they are, what rung I'm not allowed to stand above, weight limits, keeping both legs on a flat, even surface, and the proportionally inversity between balance and precariousness - the only thing they don't have is good televisability. But that's nothing a couple cans o' spray paint can't remedy.
The joke about "who was the very first person who thought of drinking milk" has been around too long for anyone to laugh anymore. What I'm curious about - who was the very first person who thought "Hey! I want to grow some food! Quick - let's collect feces and plant seeds in it!"
Man, it had to suck to be Plato. There's a guy who wasn't getting any action. Imagine going through his whole life with all of his relationships being Platonic.
Let's say you were arrested for a crime you didn't commit, and you're in the interrogation room - y'know, the kind with the two-way mirror, and you discover they installed it improperly, so you can see the cops on the other side, but they're merely looking at reflections of themselves, but they're all narcissists, so they're cool with that, and the detective keeps drilling you with questions about where you were and when you were there and why you ordered carrots at a restaurant when you'd never eat them at home, and you finally crack and admit it was you who tried putting a flattened peanut butter sandwich in a Redbox, but you can't be blamed because your children had been inputting sandwiches in the VCR for years, and what's good for the goose leaves welts on your rear end.
Babies' high chairs should have ejection seats. It's not like any more food would be flying. Just sayin'.
Goal d'week: set up a radio next to my phone, so when I tell people I'm putting them on hold, I'll start playing Mahna-Mahna, Rick Astley, or something else you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try. Hmm. What happens when multiple songs stick? Do they mesh into some sort of medley, or do they overlap in some fiendish counterpoint?
Who came up with the term "brick" for a line-drive basketball shot? Of all the real bricks I've thrown in my life, only two have bounced. The rest left chips in the gymnasium floors.
In the last work building, the bathroom lighting emphasized my white hairs. This one has softer lighting, but somehow it accentuates my acne. I fear the only way bathroom lighting can be complimentary is to be exceptionally dim. Ah, but that's when the floor gets sticky near the urinals.
Coming up with ten obscure thoughts in one sitting is about 10% harder than coming up with nine obscure thoughts in one sitting.
The joke about "who was the very first person who thought of drinking milk" has been around too long for anyone to laugh anymore. What I'm curious about - who was the very first person who thought "Hey! I want to grow some food! Quick - let's collect feces and plant seeds in it!"
Man, it had to suck to be Plato. There's a guy who wasn't getting any action. Imagine going through his whole life with all of his relationships being Platonic.
Let's say you were arrested for a crime you didn't commit, and you're in the interrogation room - y'know, the kind with the two-way mirror, and you discover they installed it improperly, so you can see the cops on the other side, but they're merely looking at reflections of themselves, but they're all narcissists, so they're cool with that, and the detective keeps drilling you with questions about where you were and when you were there and why you ordered carrots at a restaurant when you'd never eat them at home, and you finally crack and admit it was you who tried putting a flattened peanut butter sandwich in a Redbox, but you can't be blamed because your children had been inputting sandwiches in the VCR for years, and what's good for the goose leaves welts on your rear end.
Babies' high chairs should have ejection seats. It's not like any more food would be flying. Just sayin'.
Goal d'week: set up a radio next to my phone, so when I tell people I'm putting them on hold, I'll start playing Mahna-Mahna, Rick Astley, or something else you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try. Hmm. What happens when multiple songs stick? Do they mesh into some sort of medley, or do they overlap in some fiendish counterpoint?
Who came up with the term "brick" for a line-drive basketball shot? Of all the real bricks I've thrown in my life, only two have bounced. The rest left chips in the gymnasium floors.
In the last work building, the bathroom lighting emphasized my white hairs. This one has softer lighting, but somehow it accentuates my acne. I fear the only way bathroom lighting can be complimentary is to be exceptionally dim. Ah, but that's when the floor gets sticky near the urinals.
Coming up with ten obscure thoughts in one sitting is about 10% harder than coming up with nine obscure thoughts in one sitting.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Minor Debates
What would I rather have: a guitar or a pizza?
It's not a fair question. I have a guitar. Not on my person, but I own one. It rarely escapes the case and even rarelier (rarerly?) attempts a song. It's useful if we have a visitor who plays guitar, though they usually feel awkward about using someone else's instrument while they don't play anything. I could learn to play the thing, if only I had the time, discipline, and care. And we got Shu a guitar for Christmas, so now's as good a time as any to figure out how to strum.
On the other hand, I know what to do with a pizza. It's an immediate gratification with little long-term satisfaction, but that brief moment of taste is splendiforous. (Strangely, the pizza has longer-enduring echoes than a guitar.) I can share pizza with a friend without them covering their ears. (In the interest of full disclosure, there have been moments when they've covered their eyes.)
Moreover, I don't currently have a pizza. I can procure one easier than a guitar (yeah, even in Nashville), and the saucy cheesebread is considerably cheaper than the musical instrument. While my wife encourages me to learn how to use a pick, she's never once appreciated the music I've created with a pizza.
Having both a guitar and a pizza feels excessive and greedy, but that's a burden I'll have to carry with me. Now excuse me while I go drink my harmonica.
It's not a fair question. I have a guitar. Not on my person, but I own one. It rarely escapes the case and even rarelier (rarerly?) attempts a song. It's useful if we have a visitor who plays guitar, though they usually feel awkward about using someone else's instrument while they don't play anything. I could learn to play the thing, if only I had the time, discipline, and care. And we got Shu a guitar for Christmas, so now's as good a time as any to figure out how to strum.
On the other hand, I know what to do with a pizza. It's an immediate gratification with little long-term satisfaction, but that brief moment of taste is splendiforous. (Strangely, the pizza has longer-enduring echoes than a guitar.) I can share pizza with a friend without them covering their ears. (In the interest of full disclosure, there have been moments when they've covered their eyes.)
Moreover, I don't currently have a pizza. I can procure one easier than a guitar (yeah, even in Nashville), and the saucy cheesebread is considerably cheaper than the musical instrument. While my wife encourages me to learn how to use a pick, she's never once appreciated the music I've created with a pizza.
Having both a guitar and a pizza feels excessive and greedy, but that's a burden I'll have to carry with me. Now excuse me while I go drink my harmonica.
Monday, January 25, 2010
IdiOlympics
My best friends are an assortment of idiots.
Everyone hangs out with a variety of idiots, but my group has a creative streak, a competitive streak, and hopefully no Hershey streaks to speak of. When the summer Olympics hit two years ago, we decided to create our own decathlon. None of us is exceptionally athletic (or intelligent), so our events will stray from the standard races and hurls (though our races may well lead to hurling).
I haven't yet concocted an overall scoring system, but these are a few ideas bouncing around the inside of my skull. Potential events thus far:
1. The Two-Minute BB-a-thon. Set up a target with rings for 3-5-10 points. Spend two minutes cranking and firing as many shots into the target as possible. Good luck holding your arms steady after the third or fourth shot. Cumulative total wins.
2. The Egg Toss (with spouses). Wives throw three eggs, husbands catch. Longest distance with an unbroken egg wins.
3. The Heave-Putt-and-Split. Similar to the pass, punt and kick, a series of h-o-r-s-e setups between a basketball hoop, a disc golf basket, and a football field goal. Each competitor decides on one shot from each location. If he makes his own shot, it's worth ten points. Each competitor that makes that same shot subtracts three points from the originator's score and adds it to their own. If the originator misses his own declared shot, it's worth five points to anyone else who makes it. Cumulative total wins.
4. All-Things-Are-Not-Created-Equilibrium. Five forward somersaults, five circles around a dizzy bat, and five backward somersaults. Timed event.
5. Slushee Chugfest. Down one small slushee from Sonic. (Choose your own flavor.) First one to finish wins. Must drink through a straw. Enjoy the throat agony and headache.
6. Chuck E. Cheese Arcade Game Round Robin. Each competitor chooses a one-player game (video, skee ball, shocker, whatever). Tally scores. 1st place = 5 points, 2nd place = 3 points, 3rd place = 2 points. Cumulative total.
7. Poker. No clue how to make this work; suggestions welcome
8. Paper Airplane Kamikaze/Girly-Throw Massacre. Using standard construction paper (each contestant gets a different color), build and launch five airplanes from Josh's back porch, trying for distance and/or marked "safe zones." Next, each contestant throws three water balloons with their off-throwing hand. Any airplane that gets wet is disqualified from scoring, unless it's in a safe zone.
...and I'm stuck two short of ten. Considering I don't know how to incorporate poker, I need two and a half more events. Requirements: they must be cheap and relatively easy to perform, unconventionally executed, and silly.
Something involving brute strength would be nice, but armwrestling or weightlifting doesn't have the right charm. I also considered something involving skipping stones, but no clue how to coordinate it outside of going to a lake.
If you've an idea, send it as a comment. We're running this mess sometime in February. Thanks.
Everyone hangs out with a variety of idiots, but my group has a creative streak, a competitive streak, and hopefully no Hershey streaks to speak of. When the summer Olympics hit two years ago, we decided to create our own decathlon. None of us is exceptionally athletic (or intelligent), so our events will stray from the standard races and hurls (though our races may well lead to hurling).
I haven't yet concocted an overall scoring system, but these are a few ideas bouncing around the inside of my skull. Potential events thus far:
1. The Two-Minute BB-a-thon. Set up a target with rings for 3-5-10 points. Spend two minutes cranking and firing as many shots into the target as possible. Good luck holding your arms steady after the third or fourth shot. Cumulative total wins.
2. The Egg Toss (with spouses). Wives throw three eggs, husbands catch. Longest distance with an unbroken egg wins.
3. The Heave-Putt-and-Split. Similar to the pass, punt and kick, a series of h-o-r-s-e setups between a basketball hoop, a disc golf basket, and a football field goal. Each competitor decides on one shot from each location. If he makes his own shot, it's worth ten points. Each competitor that makes that same shot subtracts three points from the originator's score and adds it to their own. If the originator misses his own declared shot, it's worth five points to anyone else who makes it. Cumulative total wins.
4. All-Things-Are-Not-Created-Equilibrium. Five forward somersaults, five circles around a dizzy bat, and five backward somersaults. Timed event.
5. Slushee Chugfest. Down one small slushee from Sonic. (Choose your own flavor.) First one to finish wins. Must drink through a straw. Enjoy the throat agony and headache.
6. Chuck E. Cheese Arcade Game Round Robin. Each competitor chooses a one-player game (video, skee ball, shocker, whatever). Tally scores. 1st place = 5 points, 2nd place = 3 points, 3rd place = 2 points. Cumulative total.
7. Poker. No clue how to make this work; suggestions welcome
8. Paper Airplane Kamikaze/Girly-Throw Massacre. Using standard construction paper (each contestant gets a different color), build and launch five airplanes from Josh's back porch, trying for distance and/or marked "safe zones." Next, each contestant throws three water balloons with their off-throwing hand. Any airplane that gets wet is disqualified from scoring, unless it's in a safe zone.
...and I'm stuck two short of ten. Considering I don't know how to incorporate poker, I need two and a half more events. Requirements: they must be cheap and relatively easy to perform, unconventionally executed, and silly.
Something involving brute strength would be nice, but armwrestling or weightlifting doesn't have the right charm. I also considered something involving skipping stones, but no clue how to coordinate it outside of going to a lake.
If you've an idea, send it as a comment. We're running this mess sometime in February. Thanks.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Introspective Elective
Thinking back upon yesterday (so as not to strain my memory too badly), it dawned on me that I complained. A lot. Methinks meself doth protest too much. Some was constructive criticism of short stories (StoryMash), which might carry more actual value if I had genuine author's credentials to speak of. Some was poorly thought out comments to my wife after eleven wonderful years of marriage. (The proper time to get to sleep is not immediately after chastising your spouse for a midnight Walmart run.) Some was simply odd. I had two Clementine oranges yesterday. One was plump and juicy, but hard to peel and too pulpy. The other's peel shed easily, but the juice was weak and watery.
Is it that I don't get what I want, so I feel compelled to accentuate the negative? It's a reasonable theory, especially if you consider I've been an Eagles fan for two decades. It's more convenient to kvetch when I make a bad shot...
[pause] I'm not sure how to phrase that. Is it "try a bad shot"? I wasn't badly trying. I was badly succeeding. Or successfully failing. But making a bad shot sounds like it was poor shot selection, but the ball went in the basket. I chuck enough garbage that eventually some circus heave goes through, but most of my shots in the current group where I play are putback layups. They're good shots. I miss them. Ah. [resume]
...It's more convenient to kvetch when I miss yet another shot, but do I appreciate those I do make as much as I kid about the majority I don't? At least with basketball, I know I suck so I don't complain when other people suck too. But disc golf? Writing? Driving a car? If I believe myself to be competent (or better) at anything, that makes anyone inferior to me an easy target for insult, even in jest.
And yet I feel respected.
Perhaps it's because people respect the talent but not the person? They can learn from my technique, even if it requires enduring my blathering, bickering and babbling. Wouldn't it be so much more pleasant for everyone if I focused more on encouragement and didn't trash talk (or downright trash) folks for mistakes (many of which are committed innocently)?
Aw sheesh. As I was writing this, I looked out my window and watched some doofus make a left turn from the right turn lane. Directly in front of a cop. Who immediately turned on his light bar and pulled him over.
If only idiocy didn't run so rampantly. Mercy.
Now pardon me while I crank up my space heater next to my recycling bin full of paper and leave it unattended so it will be warm by the time I return from lunch.
Is it that I don't get what I want, so I feel compelled to accentuate the negative? It's a reasonable theory, especially if you consider I've been an Eagles fan for two decades. It's more convenient to kvetch when I make a bad shot...
[pause] I'm not sure how to phrase that. Is it "try a bad shot"? I wasn't badly trying. I was badly succeeding. Or successfully failing. But making a bad shot sounds like it was poor shot selection, but the ball went in the basket. I chuck enough garbage that eventually some circus heave goes through, but most of my shots in the current group where I play are putback layups. They're good shots. I miss them. Ah. [resume]
...It's more convenient to kvetch when I miss yet another shot, but do I appreciate those I do make as much as I kid about the majority I don't? At least with basketball, I know I suck so I don't complain when other people suck too. But disc golf? Writing? Driving a car? If I believe myself to be competent (or better) at anything, that makes anyone inferior to me an easy target for insult, even in jest.
And yet I feel respected.
Perhaps it's because people respect the talent but not the person? They can learn from my technique, even if it requires enduring my blathering, bickering and babbling. Wouldn't it be so much more pleasant for everyone if I focused more on encouragement and didn't trash talk (or downright trash) folks for mistakes (many of which are committed innocently)?
Aw sheesh. As I was writing this, I looked out my window and watched some doofus make a left turn from the right turn lane. Directly in front of a cop. Who immediately turned on his light bar and pulled him over.
If only idiocy didn't run so rampantly. Mercy.
Now pardon me while I crank up my space heater next to my recycling bin full of paper and leave it unattended so it will be warm by the time I return from lunch.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Locker Room, No Humor
I spent the better part of the last month looking for a locker mirror. I wanted something to hang on the window divider so I could see people approaching my work station. There are few things I despise worse than the mini-heart attacks I experience when startled, so I checked the dollar stores and Wal-Marts, but nobody had a magnetic looking glass. My wife finally located one for me, and only then did I discover the metal is not magnetic.
Why would someone make metal that isn't magnetic? Isn't that the whole point of being metal?
In lieu of proper usage of this mirror, I now have to concoct some contraption to attach to my typing stand, which inevitably will be stolen/broken/ordered to be removed by management.
Last week, the higher-ups instructed us to remove all items from the lockers in the shower room. As I try to play basketball twice weekly, I need a towel and toiletries, lest the entire sixth floor over-appreciate my "athletic aura." I understand the necessity to switch out towels to make sure they're clean, fresh, and not moldy; it's been 25 years since 7th grade gym class. But it'd be nice to store my soap, shampoo, razor and deodorant in a locker. Y'know, because IT'S A LOCKER.
Apparently, the twenty lockers are there for those times twenty men simultaneously want to shower and need storage space for their belongings. (I've not been in the women's shower room, but I'm guessing they have twenty there as well.) Potential shortcoming: the locker room has only two showers. I'm not sure what the other eighteen guys will be doing, but I can safely promise if an event occurs when the line grows that long for showers, I won't be one of the men standing around in a towel. Sixth floor be damned, I'm going to skunk it up until I can shower solo. (Buried somewhere in this conundrum is a labor lawsuit.)
That's weird. The combination to my locker at Penn Wood East was 12-36-14. Basement floor, #128. While the school building no longer uses that name, I expect they haven't changed the lockers since 1984. Maybe whoever's using it now will have a locker mirror I can swipe?
Why would someone make metal that isn't magnetic? Isn't that the whole point of being metal?
In lieu of proper usage of this mirror, I now have to concoct some contraption to attach to my typing stand, which inevitably will be stolen/broken/ordered to be removed by management.
Last week, the higher-ups instructed us to remove all items from the lockers in the shower room. As I try to play basketball twice weekly, I need a towel and toiletries, lest the entire sixth floor over-appreciate my "athletic aura." I understand the necessity to switch out towels to make sure they're clean, fresh, and not moldy; it's been 25 years since 7th grade gym class. But it'd be nice to store my soap, shampoo, razor and deodorant in a locker. Y'know, because IT'S A LOCKER.
Apparently, the twenty lockers are there for those times twenty men simultaneously want to shower and need storage space for their belongings. (I've not been in the women's shower room, but I'm guessing they have twenty there as well.) Potential shortcoming: the locker room has only two showers. I'm not sure what the other eighteen guys will be doing, but I can safely promise if an event occurs when the line grows that long for showers, I won't be one of the men standing around in a towel. Sixth floor be damned, I'm going to skunk it up until I can shower solo. (Buried somewhere in this conundrum is a labor lawsuit.)
That's weird. The combination to my locker at Penn Wood East was 12-36-14. Basement floor, #128. While the school building no longer uses that name, I expect they haven't changed the lockers since 1984. Maybe whoever's using it now will have a locker mirror I can swipe?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Union of the State
I don't kick ass and take names. Nor do I kick names and take ass. I have taken kicks before, and I suppose I've named an ass or two, but those seem meaningless in not only the grand scheme of things, but the little things as well.
I don't take notes on life, unless you want to count this blog. I can't foresee myself years from now digging up this site and rereading it to see where I was in my head, but that could be because my foresight is only slightly better than my crappy memory. Overall, I tend to live in the present. Yet, I've not owned a pair of overalls since I was in elementary school.
2009's Christmas has come and gone, so I have the aftermath of annual updates to attend to. It's a quirky phenomenon: people feel it necessary to send out yearly letters to fill in details about new additions, significant changes, and goofy photographs of themselves in coordinated, ugly sweaters. These status checks are the lone contact I have with most of these people - an uncle in California, a [steadily-increasing] family who's moved twice, a college friend-turned-solicitor... Reading their letters prompts warm memories, but little inspiration to reply. Want a generic log of my activities? Give me a call. (Do people use telephones anymore?) Better yet, swing by the house and we'll put you up for a meal and/or a night.
Even so, I'm vowing to myself to respond to at least four folks - the forementioned trio in the last paragraph, plus a former next-door-neighbor. Will I successfully compose entertaining/endearing/informative commentary on life as a Becker? Will I bother finding photos to accompany the letters? Am I merely using these as the current procrastination from completing a writing job I deem important? I have no answers to any of these questions. The only surety I have is you won't receive one.
Video may or may not have killed the radio star, but email definitely slaughtered the post office. Outside the Christmas seasons, I don't think I received a personal letter in years. I hold Dennis Hopper personally responsible.
I don't take notes on life, unless you want to count this blog. I can't foresee myself years from now digging up this site and rereading it to see where I was in my head, but that could be because my foresight is only slightly better than my crappy memory. Overall, I tend to live in the present. Yet, I've not owned a pair of overalls since I was in elementary school.
2009's Christmas has come and gone, so I have the aftermath of annual updates to attend to. It's a quirky phenomenon: people feel it necessary to send out yearly letters to fill in details about new additions, significant changes, and goofy photographs of themselves in coordinated, ugly sweaters. These status checks are the lone contact I have with most of these people - an uncle in California, a [steadily-increasing] family who's moved twice, a college friend-turned-solicitor... Reading their letters prompts warm memories, but little inspiration to reply. Want a generic log of my activities? Give me a call. (Do people use telephones anymore?) Better yet, swing by the house and we'll put you up for a meal and/or a night.
Even so, I'm vowing to myself to respond to at least four folks - the forementioned trio in the last paragraph, plus a former next-door-neighbor. Will I successfully compose entertaining/endearing/informative commentary on life as a Becker? Will I bother finding photos to accompany the letters? Am I merely using these as the current procrastination from completing a writing job I deem important? I have no answers to any of these questions. The only surety I have is you won't receive one.
Video may or may not have killed the radio star, but email definitely slaughtered the post office. Outside the Christmas seasons, I don't think I received a personal letter in years. I hold Dennis Hopper personally responsible.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
We Ain't Got Jack, Frost
The only reason I like the cold is for snow.
The only reason I like the snow is for skiing.
Once it drops below 45 degrees, if I'm not plummeting recklessly down a mountainside with unsafely waxed planks precariously attached to my feet, something's amiss.
I can't count the number of times people have felt it necessary to remind me I'm from Philly, a city (unknown to me) considered arctic by Nash Vegas natives. Tennessee and Pennsylvania share the same weather, for the most part. Philly holds winter a little longer, whereas the south holds out for a few additional weeks of summer. But the highs and lows between the two cities are usually separated by five degrees. 60 and 65 feel the same on a thermometer, the same way they feel the same on a highway. It's different inside a house for extended periods of time, sure, but meteorologists rarely bother with interior forecasts. Odd, that.
Besides, I moved south. If I enjoyed the cold so much, I'd've relocated to Canada. I've lived in three cities besides my hometown: Savannah, GA, Tempe, AZ, and now Nashville. I suppose I'm destined to eventually retire in SoFla or back in Phoenix.
Last night, Metro schools were closed due to snow. Mind you, none had accumulated yet. In fact, a single flake hadn't yet fallen (unless you wish to count the weatherman's unfortunate uncoordination off-set). They declared a snow day strictly on potential of snow.
I'd like to figure out ways we can incorporate this into other areas of my life. If you've any suggestions on stupid predictions leading to gift vacation days, I'm open to suggestions. Simply send them in envelopes, along with large sums of American currency. Yeah, they claim you're not supposed to send cash through the post office, but they'll need something to do through the rain, sleet, hail and snow while everyone else is at home eating french toast with all the eggs, bread and milk in every local supermarket.
Which leads to my inquiry: do mailmen wish they were public school teachers or vice versa?
The only reason I like the snow is for skiing.
Once it drops below 45 degrees, if I'm not plummeting recklessly down a mountainside with unsafely waxed planks precariously attached to my feet, something's amiss.
I can't count the number of times people have felt it necessary to remind me I'm from Philly, a city (unknown to me) considered arctic by Nash Vegas natives. Tennessee and Pennsylvania share the same weather, for the most part. Philly holds winter a little longer, whereas the south holds out for a few additional weeks of summer. But the highs and lows between the two cities are usually separated by five degrees. 60 and 65 feel the same on a thermometer, the same way they feel the same on a highway. It's different inside a house for extended periods of time, sure, but meteorologists rarely bother with interior forecasts. Odd, that.
Besides, I moved south. If I enjoyed the cold so much, I'd've relocated to Canada. I've lived in three cities besides my hometown: Savannah, GA, Tempe, AZ, and now Nashville. I suppose I'm destined to eventually retire in SoFla or back in Phoenix.
Last night, Metro schools were closed due to snow. Mind you, none had accumulated yet. In fact, a single flake hadn't yet fallen (unless you wish to count the weatherman's unfortunate uncoordination off-set). They declared a snow day strictly on potential of snow.
I'd like to figure out ways we can incorporate this into other areas of my life. If you've any suggestions on stupid predictions leading to gift vacation days, I'm open to suggestions. Simply send them in envelopes, along with large sums of American currency. Yeah, they claim you're not supposed to send cash through the post office, but they'll need something to do through the rain, sleet, hail and snow while everyone else is at home eating french toast with all the eggs, bread and milk in every local supermarket.
Which leads to my inquiry: do mailmen wish they were public school teachers or vice versa?
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