Phone rings.
Me: Hello, this is Jim. How can I help you?
Caller: What happened to the way you usually answer the phone?
Me: People got confused.
Caller: At howdyhowdy?
Me: Yeah, I know. It's pretty dumb. Who cares if I answer Bona-acke-me-sigh like that old long-distance commercial? It's my phone, my business, right?
Caller: I guess. Why not just say hi?
Me: Boring. Maybe people will sense I'm being sarcastic with my formality.
Caller: You're an idiot. Why can't you do anything like a normal person?
Me: Why would I want to?
Caller: Good point.
Me: I assume there was a reason for your call?
Caller: Yes... Right. I forget.
Me: And I'm the idiot for not answering the phone with hi?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Nibbles and Bites
I have a bug bite inside my navel. Somehow, the insect (probably a chigger) found a spot I can't scratch without rigorous effort, and that invokes the fear of inverting my belly button. Part of me is fascinated with the idea of doing so, especially if it turns out like a balloon opening. Me, one of the world's biggest whoopee cushions! (I will neither take credit for being the world's biggest whoopee cushion nor will I research the size or location of such a novelty. If that's how you want to spend your morning, God bless you and keep you away from me.)
For those of you hoping for something more blogtastic, I decided who the three people are that I'd want to have dinner party with: Steve Martin (the performer, not the mystery author), Joss Whedon, and Mark Twain. Were I in a wittier mood, I'd attempt writing what the supper conversation would entail. Unfortunately, all I can think of right now are crappy jokes about Twain's corpse collecting flies. Whedon would find be snarky, complaining to the waiter about the maggots in his soup, while Martin would take the high road, somehow maintaining nonchalance as he grew increasingly perturbed that Twain would be too dead to pass the salt.
Other candidates for that dinner party include Steve Taylor (the greatest lyricist ever), Bill Murray (who everyone, even strangers, claim I remind them of), Jesus (I hesitate at the potential discomfort because we would have trouble letting loose), Weird Al Yankovic (tragically underappreciated), Theodore Geisel, Jim Henson, and Shel Silverstein (see previous post).
Hmm. Not a woman in the bunch. I suppose that means we can fart at the table.
For those of you hoping for something more blogtastic, I decided who the three people are that I'd want to have dinner party with: Steve Martin (the performer, not the mystery author), Joss Whedon, and Mark Twain. Were I in a wittier mood, I'd attempt writing what the supper conversation would entail. Unfortunately, all I can think of right now are crappy jokes about Twain's corpse collecting flies. Whedon would find be snarky, complaining to the waiter about the maggots in his soup, while Martin would take the high road, somehow maintaining nonchalance as he grew increasingly perturbed that Twain would be too dead to pass the salt.
Other candidates for that dinner party include Steve Taylor (the greatest lyricist ever), Bill Murray (who everyone, even strangers, claim I remind them of), Jesus (I hesitate at the potential discomfort because we would have trouble letting loose), Weird Al Yankovic (tragically underappreciated), Theodore Geisel, Jim Henson, and Shel Silverstein (see previous post).
Hmm. Not a woman in the bunch. I suppose that means we can fart at the table.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Vainglorious Anonymity
I've not yet added sponsors or ads to this, as I don't fully comprehend the method, the purpose, or the advertisers who would want to attach themselves to my writing. On Storymash.com, it's often humorous to see what text searches relate to my stranger chapters, but I can't say I've ever followed one of their recommended links. Besides, I have to download the software to earn cash from these... entries. (Observations? Installations? Reservations?)
How long before I break the floodgates and announce this venture? I'm up to Week 3 now; does it still count as new? Should I amass several months of disciplined contributions to have a worthwhile backlog? Does it make any difference?
Writing is wonderfully awful. Authors crave recognition. I struggle to believe the altruistic few who claim they write for themselves, and yet, that's what I've claimed to do since June. Isn't this a cry for comments, validity? I have talent! Look at me! Read me! Love me! (How much do I suddenly feel like my five-year-old?)
I'm proud that I've maintained this weekdaily, and I hope to continue it as a discipline. Someday, if/when something I pen breaks into the mainstream, perhaps someone will dig this up to discover more about my writing roots. Until then, a few paragraphs each day keep the doctor away. That, and being healthy.
How long before I break the floodgates and announce this venture? I'm up to Week 3 now; does it still count as new? Should I amass several months of disciplined contributions to have a worthwhile backlog? Does it make any difference?
Writing is wonderfully awful. Authors crave recognition. I struggle to believe the altruistic few who claim they write for themselves, and yet, that's what I've claimed to do since June. Isn't this a cry for comments, validity? I have talent! Look at me! Read me! Love me! (How much do I suddenly feel like my five-year-old?)
I'm proud that I've maintained this weekdaily, and I hope to continue it as a discipline. Someday, if/when something I pen breaks into the mainstream, perhaps someone will dig this up to discover more about my writing roots. Until then, a few paragraphs each day keep the doctor away. That, and being healthy.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Camping-Challenged
My family joined a crowd from our church to go camping in early June. Unpleasantness abounded, highlighted mostly by our two-year-old's inability/unwillingness to lie still in a tent. Inflatable mattresses are not made for more than one person, regardless of the sizes of the mattress or the people. Were it not for s'mOreos, I'd've never suggested backyard camping with friends for July 3. If Scooter opted to stay awake, one of us (ME!) could stay in my bed and wake up with him. How poorly could it go?
* Around 11:00, we spotted a white skunk. Rather large, and I thought old. Dogs' hair grows white as they age, so why not skunks? It wasn't an albino, or else its eyes would've been pink. White Stinky decided that our campground was his campground, and he had little fear of humans. He made a half dozen apperances within twenty feet, the closest of which was when he ran next to my chair. Had I reached down, I could've grabbed him. Pass.
* Inspired by White Stinky, a younger standard black-and-white skunk followed suit and made himself at home. Our fire pit - sufficiently bright and hot enough to keep me worried about igniting my dry grass and our subdivision - was no deterrent. The gentlemen's club waited until they were around my house before peeing lines to mark our territory, and they didn't cross the streams. Thank God for Ghostbusters?
* Not to lose the jump on anyone, fireworks started erupting at 2:00. A.-FRICKING-M. One every five minutes or so, which provided enough time to fall back asleep and/or believe the predawn festivities were completed. No rhyme or reason, but plenty of proximity. I'd like to personally deliver a box of lit M-80s to the doorstep of the redneck idiot who couldn't read his watch.
* At 4:30, Justin wakes up and demands "I want breakfast!" No, go back to bed. "BREAKFAST!" I offer the most threatening look I can muster, which, between sleep-deprivation, aggravation, and disgust, must've done the trick. He lies back down. Five minutes later, he needs to go potty.
Oh yeah, I neglected to mention: Scooter wouldn't sleep in the tent. We gave up on that idea around 10:30. Since Les had a lesson to plan, she stayed inside with him.
I leave the tent, scan for the Stinktwins, let Justin in the house, and he opts to use his own bed. I also notice one of the families has deserted Campground Becker, doubtless because of the timeless bomber.
* 5:15 - another kid wakes up. Fortunately, we're prepped for this, and we told his Dad how to get in, turn on our upstairs entertainment center, and sleep on our couch.
* I wake up around 8:20 with the tent flap hanging open, no kids nearby, and no rest. Because of our family's scheduled events of July 4, I don't pack the tent back into its bag. It rains. More today. Hopefully it'll dry out by mid-week.
Next time they want to camp, I'm unscrewing their ceiling light, handing them flashlights, and building a bedsheet fort. Period.
*
* Around 11:00, we spotted a white skunk. Rather large, and I thought old. Dogs' hair grows white as they age, so why not skunks? It wasn't an albino, or else its eyes would've been pink. White Stinky decided that our campground was his campground, and he had little fear of humans. He made a half dozen apperances within twenty feet, the closest of which was when he ran next to my chair. Had I reached down, I could've grabbed him. Pass.
* Inspired by White Stinky, a younger standard black-and-white skunk followed suit and made himself at home. Our fire pit - sufficiently bright and hot enough to keep me worried about igniting my dry grass and our subdivision - was no deterrent. The gentlemen's club waited until they were around my house before peeing lines to mark our territory, and they didn't cross the streams. Thank God for Ghostbusters?
* Not to lose the jump on anyone, fireworks started erupting at 2:00. A.-FRICKING-M. One every five minutes or so, which provided enough time to fall back asleep and/or believe the predawn festivities were completed. No rhyme or reason, but plenty of proximity. I'd like to personally deliver a box of lit M-80s to the doorstep of the redneck idiot who couldn't read his watch.
* At 4:30, Justin wakes up and demands "I want breakfast!" No, go back to bed. "BREAKFAST!" I offer the most threatening look I can muster, which, between sleep-deprivation, aggravation, and disgust, must've done the trick. He lies back down. Five minutes later, he needs to go potty.
Oh yeah, I neglected to mention: Scooter wouldn't sleep in the tent. We gave up on that idea around 10:30. Since Les had a lesson to plan, she stayed inside with him.
I leave the tent, scan for the Stinktwins, let Justin in the house, and he opts to use his own bed. I also notice one of the families has deserted Campground Becker, doubtless because of the timeless bomber.
* 5:15 - another kid wakes up. Fortunately, we're prepped for this, and we told his Dad how to get in, turn on our upstairs entertainment center, and sleep on our couch.
* I wake up around 8:20 with the tent flap hanging open, no kids nearby, and no rest. Because of our family's scheduled events of July 4, I don't pack the tent back into its bag. It rains. More today. Hopefully it'll dry out by mid-week.
Next time they want to camp, I'm unscrewing their ceiling light, handing them flashlights, and building a bedsheet fort. Period.
*
Friday, July 3, 2009
Teachers and Pupils
I'm left-eye dominant, which forced me to learn how to shoot a bow left-handed. Not that anyone forced me to learn how to shoot a bow. Rifles, too. Fortunately, guns and bows (at least the ones I learned on) aren't crafted favoring handedness. Unfortunately, my right hand is considerably steadier than my left. Credit that to years of tennis, frisbee, baseball, and a variety of other sports (see stupid exercise post) that predominantly use my right hand. My left arm is basically used as a counterweight so I don't walk in circles. Oh, and I aim left handed when I pee.
I understand the concept of depth perception - I've even experimented with closing one eye while I drive. It's remarkable how unnerving it can be to lose my sense of perspective. (No doubt other highway drivers are unsettled at my riding their bumpers while winking at them.) What's most disappointing is how my vision has compromised for softball. What used to be routine pop flies now look like highlights because I have to make ridiculous catches to make up for my poor reads.
Eerie moment: My co-worker just now told me she read an article on Fox News claiming "Blind Man Now Sees After Implementing Tooth in Eye." This, after I considered titling this "And a tooth for a tooth..." And it deals with vision.
It's like the not-really-deja-vu when I accurately predict the next artist to play on a radio station. I've done it a handful of times, and it's a freak coincidence. Or I'm a freak. Something or other like that.
All this to say: don't play baseball if archers or armed rednecks in the stands are waiting to shoot skeet with line drives. You're welcome.
I understand the concept of depth perception - I've even experimented with closing one eye while I drive. It's remarkable how unnerving it can be to lose my sense of perspective. (No doubt other highway drivers are unsettled at my riding their bumpers while winking at them.) What's most disappointing is how my vision has compromised for softball. What used to be routine pop flies now look like highlights because I have to make ridiculous catches to make up for my poor reads.
Eerie moment: My co-worker just now told me she read an article on Fox News claiming "Blind Man Now Sees After Implementing Tooth in Eye." This, after I considered titling this "And a tooth for a tooth..." And it deals with vision.
It's like the not-really-deja-vu when I accurately predict the next artist to play on a radio station. I've done it a handful of times, and it's a freak coincidence. Or I'm a freak. Something or other like that.
All this to say: don't play baseball if archers or armed rednecks in the stands are waiting to shoot skeet with line drives. You're welcome.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Malaise or Mustard?
In my continual quest to drop thirty pounds, I'm learning my best hope may involve a chainsaw. Or I could take go shirtless and sprint top speed until I bellyflopped on pavement and sand myself down. Rock-hard abs? Skip the middle word and I've got it covered.
In a good week, I play basketball Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 6:00, work out at a gym (only because friends are there; I could never motivate myself to go solo) the other three weekday mornings, yoga (like golf, I'm not sure if you "play yoga" or what) once or twice on my lunch breaks, pace myself with a walking group during Friday lunches, run a couple games of ultimate frisbee Tuesday nights, field and bat with my work softball team, play 18-36 holes of disc golf, and chase my sons. Tack on pickup games of football, dodgeball, or whatever other sport falls in season. Add coaching a U4 soccer team. I should be one of the most coordinated, well-sculpted Adonisseses(es) this side of Greece. And yet... good weeks are so rare. (Partial credit also belongs to my diet - or lack thereof.)
How many calories does typing burn?
In a good week, I play basketball Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 6:00, work out at a gym (only because friends are there; I could never motivate myself to go solo) the other three weekday mornings, yoga (like golf, I'm not sure if you "play yoga" or what) once or twice on my lunch breaks, pace myself with a walking group during Friday lunches, run a couple games of ultimate frisbee Tuesday nights, field and bat with my work softball team, play 18-36 holes of disc golf, and chase my sons. Tack on pickup games of football, dodgeball, or whatever other sport falls in season. Add coaching a U4 soccer team. I should be one of the most coordinated, well-sculpted Adonisseses(es) this side of Greece. And yet... good weeks are so rare. (Partial credit also belongs to my diet - or lack thereof.)
How many calories does typing burn?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
My Story (Whatever It May Be)
I decided to relegate my self-help and introspection posts to Mondays. And yet, as Trout Fishing in America (the Last Days of Pompeii) fiddles from my computer speakers, I realize what better place than this useless cyberwasteland to explore my story?
I have an idea I don't yet know. It deals with magic, youth, the Gospel, faith, imagination, hope, and predominantly fun. There are stems from John Piper's Desiring God: "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." From Jim Henson to Dr. Seuss to Shel Silverstein. Movies like Big Fish and fairy tales reach into the realm of which I speak. Trout Fishing and They Might Be Giants touch upon it from time to time. It's in Scripture - the faith of a child, seeing things through a child's eyes - even with my quick on-line concordance, I didn't find the passage I wanted. (I sincerely hope that isn't like "Faith isn't faith until it's all you're holding on to" or "God helps those who help themselves." Bumper sticker theology sucks.) Jesus told the disciples to let the children come unto him, and that's kind of where I'm going.
My favorite Disney movie has always been Peter Pan, and it's because it's painfully sad. Wendy is one of the most tragic characters ever written. Responsibility clutches us as we grow/mature/marry/multiply. With each new burden, we lose the grasp and vision of some of what we had - the miracles of discovery, the jubilance in novelty, the belief in wishes...
Not that I want to relive my youth. I did it almost perfectly the first time around, and I can't help but think I'd screw it up if allowed a second run through.
But my story requires the magic of miracles and accepting the impossible. I don't know any of the characters, the setting, the situation, or even a line of dialog. What I know is when I finally write it, I'll know it. It may be agonizing surgery trying to transfer my ethereal sense of fun to the page, but it will be worth it.
Fun is crucial. I haven't yet located the passage where Jesus commanded us to have fun, but I'm still searching. If light is extinguished (as it so often is), nothing remains.
I have an idea I don't yet know. It deals with magic, youth, the Gospel, faith, imagination, hope, and predominantly fun. There are stems from John Piper's Desiring God: "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." From Jim Henson to Dr. Seuss to Shel Silverstein. Movies like Big Fish and fairy tales reach into the realm of which I speak. Trout Fishing and They Might Be Giants touch upon it from time to time. It's in Scripture - the faith of a child, seeing things through a child's eyes - even with my quick on-line concordance, I didn't find the passage I wanted. (I sincerely hope that isn't like "Faith isn't faith until it's all you're holding on to" or "God helps those who help themselves." Bumper sticker theology sucks.) Jesus told the disciples to let the children come unto him, and that's kind of where I'm going.
My favorite Disney movie has always been Peter Pan, and it's because it's painfully sad. Wendy is one of the most tragic characters ever written. Responsibility clutches us as we grow/mature/marry/multiply. With each new burden, we lose the grasp and vision of some of what we had - the miracles of discovery, the jubilance in novelty, the belief in wishes...
Not that I want to relive my youth. I did it almost perfectly the first time around, and I can't help but think I'd screw it up if allowed a second run through.
But my story requires the magic of miracles and accepting the impossible. I don't know any of the characters, the setting, the situation, or even a line of dialog. What I know is when I finally write it, I'll know it. It may be agonizing surgery trying to transfer my ethereal sense of fun to the page, but it will be worth it.
Fun is crucial. I haven't yet located the passage where Jesus commanded us to have fun, but I'm still searching. If light is extinguished (as it so often is), nothing remains.
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