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.
Friday, February 26, 2010
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.
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