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.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
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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