Accountability Gooooooooooals! (and other assists by Mexican sports broadcasters)

So I've decided 2021 is the year I'm finally going to get around to creating again. And here I am, wasting away what little creativity I have with a blog entry. Specifically, an entry that is not creative. 

By the end of the year - a mere 11.5 months away - I hope to have completed many of these:

- Design a board game. Ideally, that means Joe's Interstellar Garage or The Gauntlet. Realistically, I'll redesign some version of rock paper scissors that can only be played against Count Rugen. 

- Submit contest entries to On The Premises magazine or some other publication where I won't have to throw away money after my throwaway words. Their contests range in word count from 50 - 5000, both lengths I've keyboard-vomited in one sitting. 

- Compose a new song with Jerry. My aspirations are lofty enough without another unmerited attempt to learn how to play the guiltar. Yes, I spelled that correctly. Seems like I could pen another blog entry devoted to my failure to self-cultivate any musical talent. With Jerry, I'm responsible only for lyrics and harmony vocals. I'm ready to rhyme "Little Debbie" with "Hot-n-heavy." Hope the world is too. 

-  Publish a few board game reviews for Meeple Mountain. 'Bout time I shared more of this enthusiast's enthusiasm. One review will qualify as checking off this bullet point, every one beyond that is gravy. 

- Edit and rewrite Gone But Not Forgotten, a co-written piece that deserves better than it is. 

- Finish any of the projects I started with/for Stephen Lawson. Similar to Will Sells, the GBNF author, Stephen starts and finishes stories. I've been envious of both of them and their follow-through to completion, but it's something I have in me. Stop critiquing and start writing my own damned stuff. 

- NaNoWriMo. It's stupid to even consider 50K words in a year; forget churning that in November alone! That's the kind of ridiculousness that causes people to rekindle a blog that hasn't sparked in some eight years. Good golly! 

That should suffice for enough fodder for one year. If I check one off each month (reserving November accordingly), I'll still have four months to twiddle my thumbs, a feat nigh impossible whilst typing. 

If you actually read this blog entry, congratulations! You're a rare animal. If you cared about this blog entry, you're extinct. 

Overanalyzing Driving Statistics

Driving the Nashville highways, you’ll notice the digital billboards that stretch over the lanes. I expect the roads were clear today, as the information provided wasn’t any detoured routes or estimated times to reach destinations. Rather, today’s billboard read:

YTD ROADWAY FATALITIES

2012 – 820

2013 – 822

I believe there was a plea at the bottom to not become a statistic, but I was so fascinated by the numbers, I can’t remember anything else about it. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information. Is it one of those records like home runs, where it took Roger Maris 40+ years to break Babe Ruth’s record, and then only by one? It wasn’t broken again for another 35 years, and that required steroid users? Is there a way to measure “pure” roadway fatalities, or do steroid-induced crashes count the same way? Will the recorders of history put an asterisk by the total?

Or is it the sort of number that gets shattered each year? I calculated and figured out there are 67 days remaining in 2013. That’s roughly 2/11ths of a year. 1/11 of 822 is… um… 75ish. So we should expect another 150 before New Year’s Day? I’d expect winter to bring worse driving conditions and the holidays to increase the threat of drunk driving, which leads me to question whether we’ll break 1,000.

I caught myself drifting into the next lane because I was concentrating so hard on the sign. Slick move, sign maker! I don’t want to add to that number. What I did want to know was when do they update the figure? Is there someone clicking the counter every time someone flatlines, and if so, why have I never seen the number increase? Both of my vehicles crossed over 200,000 miles over the last month, and you better believe I watched those odometers roll! If I parked on the side of I-65 and watched, would the number eventually count up one by one? Or is it a tally that updates once daily? If so, when?

What happens if a car accident occurs on the border between states, and part of the vehicle ends up in Tennessee but the rest is in Georgia, Alabama, or Kentucky? (I’m no geography wunderkind, so I’ll quit listing states while I’m ahead.) Does Tennessee get half credit? That seems morbid, even for a thought pattern like this one.

I continued up I-65 toward downtown and passed a billboard advertising treatment for Alzheimer’s. I’m pretty sure I read it, but damned if I can remember any details.

Pixar Flicks

This blog entry was prompted by the blog of a friend who composed his entry after checking a professional blogger. Knowing my disdain for the blogosphere, I’m not sure if the third generation of a blogged idea makes it worse due to quality lost in reproduction, or better due to distance from the original idea. Either way, it’s still a blog. Bummer, that.


I wouldn’t have guessed Pixar’s Brave was their 13th film. Tenth, maybe? Sure, if I sat down and considered their output – thanks, Sporcle – I could’ve eventually listed them all. Rating them? A much larger task. I won’t create arbitrary numbers for characters, world building, music, etc. like Adam Quigley (http://www.slashfilm.com/author/adam-quigley/), as his summaries are as subjective as anything I could create. Regardless of how he determined his final order, I disagree largely with his rankings, listed here:

13. Cars 2
12. Cars
11. Brave
10. A Bug’s Life
9. Toy Story 2
8. Finding Nemo
7. Toy Story 3
6. Monsters Inc.
5. Up
4. Wall-E
3. Ratatouille
2. Toy Story
1. The Incredibles

No.

He’s wrong.

It’s his opinion. But it’s still wrong. It reminded me of a debate I once had with a co-worker:

Her: What’s the best song ever?
Me: What kind of song? Best driving song? Dance song?
Her: No, just the best song ever.
Me: Wow. I don’t know. Maybe A Day in the Life, by the Beatles?
Her: How’s that go?
(I should’ve walked away at that point.)
Me: (singing) I heard the news today, oh boy.
Her: What about the chorus?
Me: Um… There really isn’t a chorus.
Her: How can the best song ever not have a chorus?
(I really should’ve walked away.)
Me: Okay. You tell me. What’s the best song ever?
Her: The Lady in Red.
Me: By Chris De Burgh?
Her: Yes.
Me: No. You’re wrong.
Her: I can’t be wrong. It’s my opinion.
Me: Then your opinion is wrong. If it was my opinion that I could fly, I would be wrong.
Her: You can’t say that.
Me: Your opinion is that The Lady in Red is the best song ever. The Lady in Red is not the best song ever. Therefore, using the transitive principle, I can conclusively say your opinion is wrong.

Quigley may not be as egregiously mistaken as my former co-worker, but he could still use some correction. Mine may not be the definitive list either, and you’re welcome to tear it apart accordingly. (One caveat: I haven’t yet seen Brave so I’ll leave it off my list.)

So many of Pixar’s movies are timeless; fifty years from now, people will watch them with the same wonder and reverence we experienced watching Snow White or Bambi. A few movies don’t meet that criteria and therefore must be ranked lower. Both Cars movies, Ratatouille, and The Incredibles? Sorry. While some of you possessed precious themes, brilliant characters and solid conflicts, in the end you fall into the realm of the merely great. Ergo:

12. Cars 2. Unlike the rest of Pixar’s creations, this movie doesn’t strive to explore beyond the constraints of standard genre movies. It’s a well-executed spy comedy, but there was no greater good.

11. Cars. I’ll admit I didn’t much care for this the first time I saw it. As I have three young boys, I’ve sat through it another (at least) twenty times, during which it grew on me. Even so, you shouldn’t be required to re-watch a movie to appreciate it. I admire the theme how winning can be defined differently than coming in first, but I fear Mater may do to the Cars movies what Robin Williams did to Aladdin.

10. Ratatouille. Another off-beat offering which suffers the difficulty of a French real world. Dastardly villain? Check. Mistaken identity? Check. Those provide fantastic gags, but Pixar sets higher standards than gags. Possibly the smallest scale for a Pixar film, and maybe that’s the hang up. A fun movie, but not one with a big wow-factor.

9. The Incredibles. Conversely, the wow-factor of this was ramped up to heroic proportions. What does it mean that this falls near the top of my list of superhero movies (along with X-Men, Spider-Man 2, and The Dark Knight) but near the bottom of Pixar’s films? While Syndrome provides a stellar antagonist – complete with believable backstory, Mirage left much to be desired. Perhaps her name was a clue that we weren’t sure what to do with her, but she provided a Deux Ex Machina. Foul. You can do better, Pixar. Also, this felt like the set up for a Saturday morning cartoon series. Thankfully, that has thus far been unfulfilled.

The rest are movies I will share time and time again with my children and my children’s children (who hopefully won’t be born for at least another fifteen years).

8. A Bug’s Life. I enjoyed this immensely – the ragtag band of circus performers as motivation for the underdog to rise? What’s not to love? Strangely, I find this is usually the forgotten Pixar film. How, then, can it be timeless? It’s a fable: the ant and the grasshopper. Aesop’s stories are still circulated regularly.

7. Wall-E. I love everything up to the introduction of the humans. Suddenly, it becomes preachy. Were it not for the simplicity and intimacy of the two lead robots, I’d have walked away disappointed. With their budding love, zero-gravity dance, and commitment to each other? Beautiful.

6. Toy Story 2. I still remember fearing the worst when I heard Pixar was doing a sequel. It’s cheating. No longer did they need to set up their own universe, then establish characters and define relationships, as our familiarity with Woody and Buzz took care of that. But what a backstory! The Roundup Gang provided an ingenius counterpart to the toys of Andy’s room. I don’t believe – like many do – that this sequel surpassed the original, but I won’t rob it of its greatness.

5. Up. Another movie with an extended portion sans dialogue more powerful than any words could express. I can’t recall any other ten minutes of film doing a better job of detailing a life-long relationship. A thousand balloons! Talking, flying dogs! The bird! What utter whimsy! If you can’t enjoy this movie, something’s deeply wrong with you.

4. Finding Nemo. A road movie plus an escape movie equals the loving bond of father and son? Wow. Somehow, they overcame the too-often-annoying device of short-term memory loss to make Dory endearing. Each vignette – sharks, turtles, the tank gang – created characters with depth and purpose beyond merely advancing the plot. Every detail mattered, and Pixar didn’t ignore any of them.

3. Toy Story. To call this innovative a massive understatement. I can’t imagine anyone else doing the voices. Not only did they introduce new technology, but their layers of storytelling are on par with any Oscar winner. Buzz’s moment when he discovers he can’t fly? Heartbreakingly real. (God bless Randy Newman.) And yet, not a hokey moment in the film.

2. Monsters Inc. Without question, this is my favorite Pixar movie. Flawless casting. Immense diversion. Tense conflict. Revolutionary – and logical – solution. Perfect closing line. So why isn’t it the best they’ve done?

1. Toy Story 3. To be fair, this is not a kid’s movie. If an adult leaves the theater with dry eyes, they’re inhuman. The only other film to tell the loss of youth so daringly is Peter Pan – my favorite Disney movie, by the way. It’s a sequel, yes, but the story is so genuine, I’m willing to forgive that blemish. Even with things that can last forever, we all move on. Innocence. Joy. Tragedy. Magic. This is how a movie is done.


Thanks to Adam Quigley and Michael Kelley for prompting these thoughts. There are, of course, other great animated movies. The Iron Giant, Peter Pan, Wallace and Gromit, Flushed Away, Despicable Me, Alice in Wonderland – I recall my concern when animation became easier and suddenly there was a glut of cartoon films. At first, it was justified. For every Finding Nemo, there’s a Shark’s Tale. So long as Pixar stays in business, I’m not going to worry.

The Distraction of Distractions

I don't have ADD. I certainly don't have ADHD. If I suffered from either of those, I'd

[twenty minutes later]

As a listmaker, I've constructed plans for a variety of writing projects. I also have a handful of books to read, some for pleasure, some for groups I'm part of, and some because they could benefit the level of peace in my house.

I spend a chunk of time in my car thinking about projects I'll complete - twisted phrases, quirky characters, methods of advancing plots. And then I sit at my computer. And check Facebook. My disc golf crew's bulletin board. StoryMash. ESPN. How Philly's various sports teams fared the previous night. Facebook again, in case someone posted something of interest in the five minutes while I was away. Any assortment of followed linked articles from people I've met, or friends of friends of people I've met. YouTube. My Yahoo email. A PBM gaming site. My daily rundown of comics. Another visit to Facebook.

On rare occasion, something from the above compilation provides something of value. Very rare occasion.

And yet, it's all I can do to finish this blog post before thinking of something to change my status, thereby inviting people to comment or like me. Because existence is about collecting likes! I've intentionally avoided the Twittersphere because of the danger of lurking there for hours, searching for whatever inspiration I can find to push me away their site and into writing.

What makes me think going to Facebook will make me want to write?

Is this going to culminate like the games I've finally had to break to stop playing? How many sobrieties must I maintain on a daily basis? Isn't discipline supposed to get easier the longer I practice it?

How many things am I avoiding in order to post this blog entry for my occasional audience of nine readers?

Just now had a brief distraction conversation with a co-worker, which finished with her saying, "Getting up and doing something is overrated." In her defense, she's 37 weeks pregnant. What's my excuse?

Crappity Crap Crappiola

Yeah, so what if this was motivated partially by commenting on someone else's blog. I also want to keep pace with 2011's blog output, and by the end of this, I can check that off my list. I won't bother listing what I accomplished from my Halloween post, as the results waver between disappointing and depressing. Rather, I'll get into the meat of this. Or, more accurately, the crap.

Some crap floats. Since I have a kid with digestive issues, I've occasionally had to check to see whether his feces stay on the surface or sink to the bottom of the tank. It has to do with his properly processing the waste, and I suspect his diet plays a part in it too. Some ice cream has dye that rushes through his system and turns his poop green or blue, which shouldn't be as comical as it is (and probably isn't as comical to anyone who doesn't still laugh at a well-timed fart).

So I looked in the toilet this morning and discovered a brick hovering a few inches beneath the surface but never dropping to the drain. I stared curiously, waiting for it to blow a bubble and sink. If not air bubbles, how else could it sustain its current position in toilet purgatory? Eventually, it absorbed enough tankwater to descend and rest before it's journey to the center of the sewer system. I'd like to think I had a better reason to waste three minutes staring at my waste.

Right now, at this very moment, I'm sure you do too.

(It's good to be writing again. I have no other excuse for this.)

Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Hay NaNoWriMo!

This is the third consecutive year that I'm attempting to scribe 50,000 words in the span of 30 days. Considering I don't write on weekends, that's a buttload of words to churn. And none of these count. I don't expect to succeed this year, especially since I've been struggling like hell to get anything written. It isn't writer's block as much as it is comprehensive lack of motivation. Rough.

While I'm punishing myself at the keyboard, I may as well murder myself across the board. Never one for New Year's Resolutions, I'm going to take this opportunity to make some life changes. Hopefully for the better.

List items, in no particular order or logic:

Clean
Attic
Garage
Car
Desk
Mind
Corner of the room

Change banks
Change insurance carriers

Get Water Company to adjust bill
Enter receipts
Budget

Lose 40 pounds
Park far away and walk to work
50 pushups/situps per day (start with combo, work to individual)
No dessert or candy (today's Halloween. Niiiiiice.)

Write
The Want to Want
Boys' stories
Song for Les
Songs for boys
Chuck's FU story
Chuck's daughter's critique
Bill's critique
Ransom note

Tapioca

Home
Paint kitchen
Replace gas mower cap (gotta have something easy)

No Dominion
No inappropriate sites

Deposit Kitty and birthday checks

Lunches
Atchison
Tucker

Make mix CDs for Les/boys

I've not decided whether I'll invent a reward system; more likely, I'll assign an arbitrary number of points, much like "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" Whose life is it, anyway? Oh yeah. Mine.

I hope to log in at least a few times weekly to update progress. If you're a praying person, I could use your support. If you're not a praying person, I could use your encouragement. If you're a preying mantis, I could use a better bug management system.

Here goes nothing. And lots of it.

One mile up, two miles back

On my drive to work today, I crested a hill and saw lines of taillights illuminating a backup. They occasionally blinked, but most of the time they remained lit. Jerks switched lanes. I immediately checked my rear-view to make sure no one was riding my bumper, then I swerved off and turned down a side street. Better to take my chances with stop signs and back roads than inch forward until the traffic cleared.

The stick shift I drive has lost its clutch twice, and the idea of riding the pedals didn’t entice me. I have no car radio, which only magnifies dead time. Especially time inert.

I didn’t care that the detour was the exact opposite direction from my destination. At that moment, it dawned on me: I happily traded progress for movement. That’s how I live my life. Doesn’t matter if the momentum is lateral or even backwards, so long as I’m going somewhere. Stimulate the eyes. Only tax the brain as I mentally plot my newly evolving map.

This feels like an allegory to something much bigger. Once I figure out what that is, I’ll compose more on the topic.

The Heaviest 35 Pounds in the World

In my early 20s, I worked in a mailroom. My sense of touch was so refined, I could hold an envelope and tell you whether mailing the contents would require one, two or three stamps. I had a scale to confirm my suspicions, but I was correct more often than not.

My parents have a brick painted gold in their house. It’s a small, solid cinder block with a side dug out for a metal handle. On the side is painted the weight: 50 pounds. It was fun watching new visitors check to see if the weight was correct, often grunting as their shoulders stretched with the tug of trying to lift it.

I carry 230 pounds on a daily basis, though I’d win most carnival “Guess Your Weight” booths because my proportions don’t appear that heavy. It’s kind of people to guess I’m under two bills, but I could easily pass for 210. 205 if I suck in my gut.

I mention these weights because Sunday night, my three year old jumped on my balls. We were playing on the floor, and I warned him about how roughhousing would end up with someone hurt and crying. He charged me, unprepared, and flew like a wrestler off the top rope, stomping down with all of his might onto the mat. With my testicles under his feet.

I did what any man would do in that situation – I wept and stagger-crawled to the bathroom to vacate any food from my stomach. I didn’t feel any blood, so nothing ripped. I cupped myself and counted to two, so that was good. But the pain! Easily top three in my lifetime.

After some of the pain subsided (but not all; it’s now Thursday and I’m still sore), I debated posting something about the incident as my Facebook status. It’d certainly be unique. But, while I’m curious what responses it would evoke, I don’t think posting about genitals is appropriate. It’s a personal thing.

Y’know, like for a blog.

Drive-By Carnies

I have faint memories of riding salt and pepper shakers as a child. For those unfamiliar, salt and pepper shakers are a carnival ride, where you climb inside a small pod at the end of a pole-contraption, then that pod circles while spinning. It's a miserable experience, and I have to chalk it up to being the early 80s as to why they don't exist anymore. Litigation being what it is now. I would never let any of my children ride such a cruel monstrosity, and I may have some resentment issues towards my parents for letting me board the thing, though most of my childhood memories are blurry. As this is one of the few images that I can recollect, I'll assume it's a good thing the rest remains out of focus.

Anyway, the carnival has come to town again like it does at least twice annually. Semis unload and set up their rickety ferris wheel and assorted vomit-inducers, along with “food stands” for corn dogs, funnel cakes, and pizza grease. (Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve separated those from the vomit-inducer category.) Generators power the thousands of light bulbs, and I can’t see how the operations turn a profit. (Do they also pay rent to the supermarket for using their parking lot?)

Curiosity, plus a desire for an alternative to Redboxing it, inspired me to take Leslie to perhaps ride the ferris wheel. We arrived at the tail end of an evening as the clock approached ten. I escorted my wife through Sucker’s Row, ignoring pleas to dart balloons or ring bottles. I’m not a mark. I’m not a rube. I have no need for an oversized, Styrofoam-stuffed fuzzy banana and I really can’t fathom who does.

The gate and corrals to accommodate the non-existent lines had a sign requiring five tickets per person to ride the big wheel. Without knowing the conversion rate between dollars and tickets, I wasn’t discouraged. When I located the booth and learned tickets were a dollar each, I was less than thrilled. But ten bucks for ten minutes time was acceptable, especially since I’d already turned down Leslie’s request to stop at a specialty sundae shop. (Doesn’t the old saying go “You have to spend money to make happy?”)

Mostly fortunately but a little unfortunately, we discovered the booth was closed. Tickets couldn’t be sold, cash wasn’t accepted at the ride, and we were out of luck. Really? I can’t speak for Les, but I felt lucky.

In lieu of making myself nauseas via the ride, I opted for one of their “famous” funnel cakes. Did they possess a special mold to make the stringy bread into faces? Had their special flavoring (aka powdered sugar) won international acclaim?

I approached the large, unhappy woman behind the food counter and asked if they, unlike the ticket booth, were still open.

“Sure. Cash only. No change.”

My wallet contained a twenty and nothing else. While one funnel cake mightn’t make me sick, four funnel cakes made that ending inevitable.

I briefly attempted a haggle for two funnel cakes and ten tickets, but the carnie corrected me that, “Ticket booth’s closed.” Of course. Stupid me.

As my boys get older and more adventurous, they’ll more than likely want to try some of those rides, win some worthless crap, and impress future girlfriends by tossing ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. Staying one hour could easily run fifty bucks, and that’s without entering Sucker’s Row.

Spending a couple hundred bucks for Disneyland doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. See? There’s always a silver lining.

Oh wait. That’s just the reflection from pizza grease on the blacktop.

Automatic for the Pee

I shall now attempt to list Innovations in Toilet History without doing any research whatsoever:

Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.

Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.

Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.

Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.

Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.

Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?

(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)

If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.

If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.

Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.

Err Jordan

Something persuaded my father to sign me up for wrestling instead of basketball when I was seven years old. In lieu of running fast breaks, draining Js, and denying weakass shots in the paint, I donned a blue onesie, endured mat burns, and suffered endurance contests of six-inches, a cruel coach’s drill designed to build and strengthen abs. Lie flat on your back, feet together. Lift your legs until your ankles are six inches off the mat. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Aaaaaaaaaaand down. Once you collect your breath and convince yourself you’re not vomiting, do it again. Repeat until tears fall.

Wrestling also required early morning jogs, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I still loathe both early morning and jogging. If that didn’t suffice, it also started pre-pubescents to diet so we could hit our weight classes. I’m sure some good came out of it, but I suspect I’ll have to ask St. Peter what good that was, as little of it has been revealed in this earthly life.

These days, there aren’t many calls for wrestling. Sure, I tackle and roll with my boys on a regular basis, but I’ve not yet had to apply a half-nelson, cradle, or arm bar. My career in MMA was over long before it ever began.

Conversely, I play basketball twice weekly. And weakly. I possess the shooting touch of a Howitzer, and my ups continue their downward trend as gravity holds me closer to the floor than it used to. Not that I was ever a sky force to contend with; I’ve only touched rim with the aid of a trampoline. I see lanes well enough and my sheer mass is enough to box out anyone who doesn’t have the audacity to outjump me. Mostly, I set a mean pick and roll. Minus the roll.

Once a year, I develop a superpower, in that my reflexes, my perspective, my touch, my vision, and my entire game elevates a dozen notches. Suddenly, I can pop shot after shot from beyond the arc and my baby hook doesn’t wet the bed. It reminds me of NBA Jams, the video game where your players can be “ON FIRE!” after hitting three consecutive baskets. It’s a ridiculous, glorious feeling and if I knew how to bottle it, I’d go pro. Yes, even at 39.

Sadly, those fleeting moments are rare. Worse, I’m such an abysmal shooter the rest of the time that I eschew jacking up bricks with the hopes of starting a new miracle streak. As Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” What he didn’t say is “If you only take one shot and you make it, you hit 100% of your shots.” Which I do. Often.

Sometimes.

Occasionally.

Twice.

Anybody need me to set a pick?

Like Riding a Bike

Unless you consider gimmick limericks for a cafe as writing, I haven't put words on paper in months. It's frustrating, aggravating, depressing, and lame. I've no shortage of ideas - an accumulated journal of ideas passed over the years haunts me, as none of them is currently inspiring. I'm reluctant to give those ideas full respect - it's rare that I have simultaneously great concepts, but only the time to pursue one. I could throw out the sketchbook of second-tier ideas, but that seems counterproductive. No worse than the amount of writing I've done.

And that's how you fill a paragraph by saying nothing. Remarkably similar to the other 106 blog entries, if I do say so myself.

I decided to look for a marketable opportunity this time - perhaps rerouting would help spark me toward the destination of publication? Isn't that why I started this quasi-anti-blog in the first place? Get my brain working a variety of methods with the hopes of something worthwhile popping forth? And then, watch as some multiconglomerate recognized me, decided I filled the Jim-sized-and-shaped-niche that the world so sadly lacks and would so be willing to pay inordinate amounts of American currency for.... (sigh).

I cut out an inspirational comic strip yesterday. http://comics.com/soup_to_nutz/2010-05-23/ Hardly the same spirit as 95% of the comics I appreciate, but I'm hoping to dredge some butterflies out of the drek currently inhabiting the writer's part of my brain.

A writer writes. I daren't credit myself with that title until I at least put something new together. I wouldn't consider myself a mechanic if I didn't fix a machine in months, regardless of how skilled I may have been before my self-and-apathy-imposed layoff.

I'm pretty sure riding a bike is much easier than this crap.

My Life in a Song (or 100)

I published this note on Facebook earlier today, and since my readership here exceeds my readership there, I thought I'd share....

Though this sounds painfully like a Facebook trend, I have to credit a former roommate for the idea. He recently put together a "sountrack to his life" and challenged me to do the same. I recognize the fact that very few people will look at this if they're not tagged. Meh.

A few disclaimers:

1. The years noted are when I remember them, not necessarily when the songs were released. It's possible I remember an 80s song from before it was released; if that's the case, it's because I transcend time.

2. I've no clue how to pinpoint dates from growing up, so the first four I'm attaching to before I turned 10. Close enough for horseshoes, handgrenades, and whogivesacraps.

3. Tapioca. (Someday, someone will write a song with that as the sole lyric.)

4. Most of these relate to 20th century club, PW (E and H), EGO, SU, Temple, SCAD, ex girlfriends, current wife, Tom's Cabin, driving cross-country, or singing inside my motorcycle helmet. Each track evokes some memory. At some point, I liked all of the songs. I can no longer make that claim today.

1. Boom Boom Ain’t It Great to Be Crazy - Wee Kids - (79)
2. The Age of Aquarius - 5th Dimension - (79)
3. In the Hall of the Mountain King - Edvard Grieg - (79)
4. 99 Miles to LA - Johnny Mathis - (79)
5. My Life - Billy Joel - (81)
6. Vienna - Billy Joel - (82)
7. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer - Beatles - (83)
8. Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue - Crystal Gayle - (83)
9. The Devil Went Down to Georgia - Charlie Daniels Band - (83)
10. Cum on Feel the Noize - Quiet Riot - (84)
11. Stay the Night - Chicago - (84)
12. The Last Dance - Irene Cara - (84)
13. Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin - (84)
14. You’re a Friend of Mine - Jackson Browne & Clarence Clemons - (85)
15. Take On Me - a-ha - (85)
16. Standing in Your Shadow - In Pursuit - (85)
17. The Refugee - U2 - (85)
18. Let’s Go Crazy - Prince - (85)
19. Thriller - Michael Jackson - (85)
20. That’s All - Genesis - (85)
21. The Rainbow Connection - Jim Henson - (85)
22. Am I in Sync - Steve Taylor - (85)
23. Fire and Rain - James Taylor - (86)
24. You Light Up My Life - Carole King - (86)
25. Hyperactive - Thomas Dolby - (86)
26. Walking on a Thin Line - Huey Lewis and the News - (86)
27. Shattered Dreams - Johnny Hates Jazz - (86)
28. One More Minute - Weird Al Yankovic - (86)
29. Penny Lane - Beatles - (86)
30. Don’t Stop Believin’ - Journey - (86)
31. Trains Up in the Sky - Mylon Lefevre & Broken Heart - (86)
32. It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) - REM - (86)
33. Just Like Heaven - The Cure - (86)
34. What I Like About You - The Romantics - (87)
35. Leave It - Yes - (87)
36. That Voice Again - Peter Gabriel - (87)
37. Mary’s Prayer - Danny Wilson - (87)
38. Ba Ba Ba Ba - The 77s - (87)
39. Roxanne - The Police - (87)
40. Living on the Bright Side - Bryan Duncan - (87)
41. I Drove All Night - Cyndi Lauper - (88)
42. It Takes Two - Rob Bass and EZ Rock - (88)
43. Wipeout - Beach Boys - (88)
44. Good Lovin - Bobby McFerrin - (88)
45. Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd - (88)
46. Rio - Duran Duran - (88)
47. Poison - Bell Biv Devoe - (88)
48. Love is Not Lost - Leslie Phillips - (88)
49. Fragile - Sting - (89)
50. Oh Yeah! - Yello - (89)
51. Boys of Summer - Don Henley - (89)
52. Life in a Northern Town - The Dream Academy - (89)
53. Still Rock and Roll to Me - Billy Joel - (89)
54. Just a Friend - Biz Markie - (89)
55. Hotel California - Eagles - (90)
56. I Want to Know (What You’re Feeling) - Information Society - (90)
57. Hot for Teacher - Van Halen - (90)
58. Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen - (90)
59. Istanbul (Not Constantinople) - They Might Be Giants - (91)
60. Violent Blue - Chagall Guevera - (91)
61. More to this Life - Steven Curtis Chapman - (92)
62. Blame it on Me - Barenaked Ladies - (92)
63. She’s a Beauty - The Tubes - (92)
64. Goodbye, Goodbye - Oingo Boingo - (93)
65. I’ll Settle for You - Roommates - (93)
66. Dim - Dada - (93)
67. He Is Not Silent - Out of the Grey - (93)
68. Remember the Rainbow - The Fishermen - (93)
69. Always Something There to Remind Me - Naked Eyes - (94)
70. Spinning Round - Pray for Rain - (94)
71. I Just Wanna Know - Steve Taylor - (95)
72. Shine - Newsboys - (95)
73. Great Big Stupid World - Randy Stonehill - (95)
74. Four Seven - Jars of Clay - (95)
75. Days Go By - Duncan Sheik - (96)
76. When I Was a Boy - Dar Williams - (96)
77. Burning Down the House - Talking Heads - (96)
78. Sarah Smile - Hall & Oates - (96)
79. A Day in the Life - Beatles - (96)
80. Justified - Black Eyed Sceva - (96)
81. The Window - Trout Fishing in America - (97)
82. Go Daddy-O - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - (97)
83. Fame - Todd Greene - (97)
84. Delivery - Roommates - (97)
85. American Girl - Tom Petty - (97)
86. Desire - U2 - (97)
87. What Wondrous Love Is This? - Randall Lancaster - (98)
88. House on Pooh Corner - Kenny Loggins - (98)
89. When Doves Cry - Prince - (99)
90. Center of Attention - Guster - (00)
91. Another Horsedreamer’s Blues - Counting Crows - (00)
92. Sixteen Candles - Sponge - (00)
93. Tony - Patty Griffin - (01)
94. I Do What I Can - Sheryl Crow - (02)
95. The Finish Line - Steve Taylor - (03)
96. Everybody Loves Jill - Cowboy Mouth - (03)
97. Skin - Vigilantes of Love - (03)
98. The Luckiest - Ben Folds - (05)
99. Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley - (06)
100. The Blower’s Daughter - Damien Rice - (07)

If you've nothing to do and too much time, I encourage you to create your own list. I also encourage you to give me money, regardless of your circumstances.

Plea Bargain

When someone says they don't want to complain, aren't they immediately betraying their interest? At the very least, they're setting themselves up to fail.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of surfing blogs. As I progressed from one to the next, I was again reminded why I think they're pointless. Don't get me wrong; some bloggers displayed beautiful photographs, others offered valuable insights on maximizing technical efficiency, others relayed updates on their ministries or families, and yet others detailed their struggles with diseases, often terminal.

I don't know what motivated me to continue browsing. Perhaps it was an voyeuristic impulse to glimpse into the lives of total strangers? More likely than not, I wanted some way to procrastinate and I'd already been through my daily rituals.

One recurring theme was reinforced as I visited blog after blog: I don't care. Seriously. I couldn't care less about cutesy baby pictures or the difficulties of eight-months-preggers ladies navigating shopping carts through a crowded supermarket. I'm not learning SQL anytime soon, nor have I any investment in somebody's journey for self-discovery by trekking through the Himalayas. What I wanted was something worth reading.

(Note to self: that's why books exist.)

I returned to a blog I thoroughly enjoy - Stephan Pastis, the cartoonist who does Pearls Before Swine. He cracks me up. So does Steve Martin's blog. But no one would visit their sites if they weren't already established in other venues.

So why do I write this? Haven't I asked that about a hundred times already? Is it for those few-and-far-between comments? I could achieve faster and better feedback from Facebook. Is it to maintain a practice and discipline for writing? And Here's the Kicker encouraged comedy writers to maintain journals. Would this qualify?

Have I ever committed so much time and effort to a senseless, pointless venture like this? On the days when I phone it in, would I be better off skipping altogether? What's my record for consecutive questions? Why do I suddenly feel like Macauley Caulkin from Uncle Buck?

I've determined if I have a request for my reading public (all nine of you), then I should state it up front because odds are slim of getting to the bottom of an introspective, non-funny entry like this. Even if I include tapioca.

So here's my plea: Give me a purpose for writing this. If you think it's humorous and that's sufficient, say so. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions. (I may not use them, but I'm willing to read them.) Ready? Begin.

Ten for Thursday

That makes me happier than a bowl of pancakes.

If I were to describe you, the list of words I'd use would be long and repetitive.

My boys were screaming in the other room. I couldn't decipher most of the words, but I was pretty sure I heard "bleeding."
Me: Who's bleeding?
Justin: Nobody! Except for Josh and Scooter.

Two awful jokes I came up with for the boys:
What's Braveheart's favorite snack food? FRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITOOOOOOS!
What do you call a bovine drummer? Cowabongo!

Irish people are from Ireland. Scottish people are from Scotland. Why is there no "Jewland?"

Through minutes of research, I have concluded there is no substitute for a dog. Then again, if your class is being taught by a dog and it gets sick, it's probably best to take the day off.

Someday, I hope to look back at this blog and laugh. Until then, I intend to look forward at this blog and sigh.

Games for prostitutes' children to play: Red Light District/Green Light.

Every time you hear a bell, an angel gets its wings. Cell phone ring tones don't count.

What did you do if your Christmas tree was too fat to squeeze into the front trunk of your 1975 VW Bug? There's a joke in here somewhere, but it's outdated, confusing, and no less funny than anything else I've written today.

Putting the Un in UnMotivation

Writers are supposed to establish a space, a sanctuary where they can and will write without distraction. Considering my three sons (the reality, not the television show), setting up such a haven at home is an impossibility. Plus, my home PC has games. Crappy ones, but I'm currently running a streak of 140+ consecutive wins at FreeCell. That should continue indefinitely until Justin decides to give it a go. Which would be best, because the pressure to maintain perfection is excruciating. I can't quit a game early, which becomes difficult when Les calls me away from the computer only seconds after starting a game. Sure, it may only take three minutes, but that's time I'm teaching my boys it's okay to delay or procrastinate. Add it to the list of things I've unwittingly instructed, and before I know it, I'll have children who can build pyramids... Later.

Back to my original point. I write from work. That's where I have less distractions. Even so, I've cleared out the detractors that suck at my attention and effort, answering overdue emails, entering receipts into my budget, straightening my desk, checking my Facebook and friends' blogs, and organizing my tote bag. So, of course, it's twenty minutes before I leave for the day.

A friend and I have worked and reworked a story too many times and I'm still unsatisfied with the conclusion. One murder takes place and a second killing happens in self-defense, but the best motive we've used so far is "madness." As in "The killer was crazy." Which is crap. I've searched every corner of my vacuous mind to determine the story - as is - isn't worth reworking again. So I'm removing the murder altogether and replacing it with a kidnapping. (Maybe that's what motivated the recent THR instructions?)

The new dynamic of the story deals with a kidnapper who got what he wanted from the kidnapped (kidnappee?), then doesn't know how to return him without getting caught. Ransom demands generally include escape transportation, international Visas/passports, or everyone to look away while the bad guy sneaks off.

This situation is considerably smaller - no ransom note. The kidnapper gets the victim specifically so the victim can do something. The victim reluctantly-but-eventually complies. And there I am.

I've sat on it too long, and need to rediscover the momentum that carried my interest so deeply into the original story, even if this incarnation bears little resemblance to that one. I write this as a challenge to myself, a hard-lined opportunity to accomplish something. YES! Tomorrow, I WILL finish that draft!

Or, at the very least, I'll delete this post.

Organizational Schmactics

Today is a day of cleaning and budgeting, a time to straighten out the clutter on my desk and in my head. Because I feel no compulsion toward testing my job security, I also shan't test the fire sprinkler system in this new building. My sizeable forearms could perform a sweep, were it not for bordering cubicles that would inherit my junk. As part of this cube farm, I can't lift part of my station high enough to let gravity pull everything toward a trash can. Bummer.

Apparently, it's my destiny d'jour to look at each individual page and decide whether it should be filed, passed along to someone else, recycled or trashed. Which should mean four piles. Except mine ends up two: passed along or trashed. Technically, I could sidestep the middle man and assume the next person to read those things I pass forward will throw them out. Why not send them to the junk heap myself?

On one side of my station, I have a box of Kleenex. (Name brand, mind you, or else I'd call them tissues. Our copiers at the firm are actual Xerox machines. And my underwear is designed by Hanes.)

Someone has a job designing men's underwear.

I take that back. Many, many people have jobs designing men's underwear.

I bet they don't have messy desks.

Truer Words Were Often Written

I should learn to play the banjo.

I won't do it. But I should.

Blog Entry #100!

It's true! I've hit triple digits. And yet, as I sit here eating my oatmeal with a fork, debating whether it's possible to scribble something with a keyboard, the sense of accomplishment ranks somewhere between getting a really good haircut and finding an open parking spot downtown on a Saturday night. There's something there, but it's not the sort of occasion worth writing about. Except the majority of The Hypocrite's Refuge consists of substance like this.

Should I conduct some informal, personal ceremony to commemorate my centennial achievement? I turn 39 tomorrow, and I've specifically requested nothing for my birthday. Baking a cake for a blog with such limited readership feels overzealous somehow.

As mentioned a few weeks ago, I'm reading "And Here's the Kicker," which is a series of "conversations with top humor writers on their craft." A recurring theme between them is the importance of honesty in their humor. Which makes me wonder - is there something true beneath my fluff? (I'm not merely referring to my belly hair, underneath which lies too much truth and ice cream.) Must I deliberately incorporate heavier substance to protect these entries from becoming too easily forgettable? Besides the frustration and angst of my wanna-be writer tendencies, the annoyances of stupid people, and the silliness of random wordplay, is there anything worthwhile to keep my followers coming back?

I ask myself again: why am I blogging? 'Tis good writer's practice to put words on paper daily. Discipline. Consistency. The chance hope of inspiration. But mainly, I blog with the hope of making someone laugh. I've no desire to cause you to spit your coffee across your monitor. I dislike LOL, ROFLMAO, and the sub-genre of acronym/emoticon so prevalent in chatting and texting, so my longing to inspire chuckles/giggles/smirks isn't accompanied by a craving for Twitterish feedback. Any belief that this would might viral was squelched before I started. I don't use photos or videos, I don't Twitter, I rarely use Facebook for anything beyond peeping.

Still, cyberspace is large enough that I wouldn't consider THR to be a waste of it. I'll continue forging onward, potentially revealing more of my thoughts than the mental chaff that amuses me. Or not. Years from now, it'd be nice to reminisce on something brilliant I conceived of. But then, why would I look here for that?

Same reason you do, I suppose.

So thanks to the half-dozen readers who frequent this site, more to the fewer who sporadically comment, and especially to the little people, who haven't been mentioned in an awards speech for far too long. The most important job little people do: create a perspective that lets us feel big. And there we are.

No Tagbacks

Blogger's suggested labels for this post, and I'm guessing for all posts, are "scooters, vacation, fall." Why those three words? Did the creator of this site know I called my youngest son Scooter? Is he aware that we recently had to cancel a trip to Florida and run a staycation instead? Is his favorite season autumn? Or -

Whenever I go on vacation, one of the things my wife and I enjoy is seeing the city. Not the standard sightseer route, visiting memorials, landmarks, and architectural oddities. Instead, we rent a Vespa scooter and she holds onto me as we zoom down the streets and get a tourist's eye view on our surroundings. It's so much easier when the burden of finding a parking spot for a rental car is alleviated. When the streets are full, I simply turn the bike sideways and park it between two other vehicles. This was a great strategy until our latest excursion, when the backroads I attempted to navigate were peppered with potholes. Les bounced behind me on the seat, but she hung on, squeezing tighter and tighter with every jolt. An intelligent driver would've slowed down on such a street, but I enjoyed the sensation and if it encouraged her to hug, even better. I didn't realize how she was unintentionally cutting off my oxygen until things suddenly became very hazy. I think I blacked out. Which is never a good thing when driving a scooter. The Vespa flipped forward and sideways, catapulting both Les and myself into an agonizing sequence of unsynchronized flailing. It was the worst fall I'd ever endured.

Tags: scooters, vacation, fall.

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