Why must I be so obnoxious playing ultimate frisbee? Could it be because the name uses "ultimate" with no sense of pretention? If you suck at ultimate, are you still pretty good? Or, if like me, you happen to excel at ultimate, does that make my game penultimate frisbee? Regardless, why do I feel saddled with the burden of trash talking like a Crown Prince? If there are Harlem Globetrotters of frisbee, they can probably throw discs with their teeth and hit targets at obscene distances, catch a dozen tosses simultaneously, and look more natural in bright red, white and blue than I ever could. (Don't blame me; I'm a winter.)
Is it the constant yabbing that draws me out to the field Tuesday nights? Is it playing with (and schooling) kids half my age, two-thirds my weight, and twice my athleticism? Delusions of grandeur?
To the same extent, why don't I speak up as much on a softball field or volleyball court, where the players are a more captive audience? Perhaps the false sense of superiority is removed when I become the opposite end of the age spectrum. Pentagenarians aren't as easy to impress with a quick wit and a sharp tongue - to them I'm simply a wiseass whippersnapper. Could it be that I need to up my game to pro-levels? Not the sport itself, but the banter - after a solid spike, pull a sharpie from my sock and sign the volleyball before passing it to the crowd. Bash a dinger and do a victory lap around the bases? Victory dance? Victory lap dance?
Methinks I'll be quiet next time I play ultimate. I'll allow myself to speak up after someone asks me why I'm working the silent treatment. Or what's wrong. Or says, "Hi, Jim." (I'd hate to paint myself into a corner with limited options.)
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
99% Perspiration and 56/100% Ivory Soap
I have twenty-two minutes to share my genius, which should be plenty o' time. So... go.
Any minute now.
Inspiration strikes like lightning. And I had two good ideas last week, which means I'm not due again until at least August. Twenty-two minutes, my butt!
With Michael Vick getting so much grief for his dog abuse, I wondered where the humane association's line is. Are we allowed to fish? Magnify some sunlight on ants? Can I rig some contraption with spikes and morningstars to caterpillars and let them duke it out on a branch? If I sharpen the wings of a moth and tie strings to their antenna, can I conduct live kite fights without fear of repurcussion? Or am I limited to M&M fights? (Sure, plenty of people crush two finger-candies to see which prevails; I stomp on a bag to weed out the wimps up front.)
What do you mean, that doesn't qualify as brilliance?
If you can keep parts of your brain focused by doing things wrong-handedly (brushing your teeth with your opposite hand, for example), how much can you improve your mental facilities by doing things with the rest of your anatomy? Is there any other explanation of why so many Einsteins on the highway drive with their knees? Screw multi-tasking; we're talking omni-tasking! Whereas I, the foolish genius of the bunch, am merely unitalented. Once I figure out what that is, I'm going to be rich.
Which is to say: my talent is not earning money.
I do have a knack for babbling, though. I still have half my twenty-two allotted minutes left to spend however I want. And if time is indeed the money as the cliche states, I'll put some away now, some more away each week, and build quite a pile of it. Compound interest should help me afford college tuition for at least one of the boys.
That's as Mensa as I'm getting today.
Any minute now.
Inspiration strikes like lightning. And I had two good ideas last week, which means I'm not due again until at least August. Twenty-two minutes, my butt!
With Michael Vick getting so much grief for his dog abuse, I wondered where the humane association's line is. Are we allowed to fish? Magnify some sunlight on ants? Can I rig some contraption with spikes and morningstars to caterpillars and let them duke it out on a branch? If I sharpen the wings of a moth and tie strings to their antenna, can I conduct live kite fights without fear of repurcussion? Or am I limited to M&M fights? (Sure, plenty of people crush two finger-candies to see which prevails; I stomp on a bag to weed out the wimps up front.)
What do you mean, that doesn't qualify as brilliance?
If you can keep parts of your brain focused by doing things wrong-handedly (brushing your teeth with your opposite hand, for example), how much can you improve your mental facilities by doing things with the rest of your anatomy? Is there any other explanation of why so many Einsteins on the highway drive with their knees? Screw multi-tasking; we're talking omni-tasking! Whereas I, the foolish genius of the bunch, am merely unitalented. Once I figure out what that is, I'm going to be rich.
Which is to say: my talent is not earning money.
I do have a knack for babbling, though. I still have half my twenty-two allotted minutes left to spend however I want. And if time is indeed the money as the cliche states, I'll put some away now, some more away each week, and build quite a pile of it. Compound interest should help me afford college tuition for at least one of the boys.
That's as Mensa as I'm getting today.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Lemmings
...And you shall read my blog! And you shall cherish me and worship my brilliance! And you shall print hard copies to have something to tape in public restroom stalls for strangers to peruse as they sit and do their business! And you shall not hand-write at the top of each copy "to be used as toilet paper, but be careful, because the writer is already full of crap!" And you shall bring to mind the Ten Commandments, merely from the usage of the word "shall!" And you shan't use it's negative contraction, as it sounds like a dirty word! And you shall mentally separate these ideas into their own paragraphs while I deem it unnecessary! And you shall thank me for providing leadership and mentorship while sinking your mental battleship! And you shall recognize the crucial importance of doing all of the above because each directive ends with an exclamation point! And you shall consider this sufficient for a Friday entry!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Aspirations Toward Mediocrity
Does it matter that I'm blogging in a different time zone than I'm sitting? I should pay attention to when this posts, so I can determine where cyber-me resides.
Last night, I concocted Gil the Ghoul because I was bored. Plus, my sister is reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Plus, the Twilight series has spawned a plethora of wannabe authors who romanticize the supernatural, especially vampires. Zombies have always gotten a bum rap. I'm not sure Gil will level the scales towards ghoul-sympathy, but the ideas flowed freely and I amassed enough material to write for a few weeks. Unlike this blog, which I've barely advertised, I sent out several dozen friend requests from Gil. Thus far, one confirmed. Disappointing, but I expect with the rampant suspicion of internet scams and viruses, people don't want to involve themselves in anything shady. And I haven't posted a picture yet.
So if you're on Facebook and you happen to read this, please send Gilthe Ghoul (they wouldn't let me use Gil The Ghoul) a Friend Request. He'll post at least three notes weekly, and I hope they'll be as entertaining as I thought they were last night. Unless they're the fleeting comedies that aren't funny to anyone but myself. (Or not even myself, if the inspirations were false humor - much like false labor, they bear no real fruit.)
Eventually, I'll announce on StoryMash (and maybe my regular Facebook) that I'm maintaining this stupid journal. Before I do, I wanted to build a backlog - at least 30 entries - so it wouldn't look like yet another novelty with no follow through. Today's note is #18 and I don't post on weekends, so I'm looking at August. By that point, will the attempted joke alter-ego be as dead as every other zombie?
(Minor note: According to the time stamp, I'm posting from the west coast.)
Last night, I concocted Gil the Ghoul because I was bored. Plus, my sister is reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Plus, the Twilight series has spawned a plethora of wannabe authors who romanticize the supernatural, especially vampires. Zombies have always gotten a bum rap. I'm not sure Gil will level the scales towards ghoul-sympathy, but the ideas flowed freely and I amassed enough material to write for a few weeks. Unlike this blog, which I've barely advertised, I sent out several dozen friend requests from Gil. Thus far, one confirmed. Disappointing, but I expect with the rampant suspicion of internet scams and viruses, people don't want to involve themselves in anything shady. And I haven't posted a picture yet.
So if you're on Facebook and you happen to read this, please send Gilthe Ghoul (they wouldn't let me use Gil The Ghoul) a Friend Request. He'll post at least three notes weekly, and I hope they'll be as entertaining as I thought they were last night. Unless they're the fleeting comedies that aren't funny to anyone but myself. (Or not even myself, if the inspirations were false humor - much like false labor, they bear no real fruit.)
Eventually, I'll announce on StoryMash (and maybe my regular Facebook) that I'm maintaining this stupid journal. Before I do, I wanted to build a backlog - at least 30 entries - so it wouldn't look like yet another novelty with no follow through. Today's note is #18 and I don't post on weekends, so I'm looking at August. By that point, will the attempted joke alter-ego be as dead as every other zombie?
(Minor note: According to the time stamp, I'm posting from the west coast.)
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Disciplinary Intangibles
For those who have been trained by it, no discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. However, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.
That's Scriptural, and I quoted it from memory. So what if the main reason I know it is because Bobby McFerrin used it in a song? He happens to be a genius. If he's touring, you'd do yourself a favor to see him perform. So simple, yet brilliant.
Halfway through week four and I'd've ("I would" plus "would have" should have its own contraction) liked to've ("to have" - why not?) thought they'd get easier by now. Like working out. Or running. Once you hit a point where you're doing it every day, you'll miss it when you skip it. Except I've never once in my life regretted the absence of working out or running. Even if writing is my passion, I'm not much of a passionate person.
Is this blog properly absorbing my ideas? I had to think for five minutes of a decent Facebook status update, and I can normally spawn one-liners like an amateur magician on a riverboat. Speaking of which, a friend is holding his 40th birthday party tomorrow, and as gifts, he's asked each of his guests to prepare two minutes of stand up comedy. This should be easy for me. Sarcastic quips and quick shots are first-nature; I have to force myself into the second nature of kindness and gentleness. I even have a "Too Soon" theme - tasteless jokes told too soon after the death of prominent figures. Where is the acceptability line for offensive tributes?
Come to think of it, I used to write "spotlights" for a play-by-mail game, where my theme had less substance than a Seinfeld episode. Nothing about nothing about nothing. I enjoyed writing them, my audience patronized me with compliments, and by the end of it, I had regular contributions about zip. Much like this blog. Five paragraphs already? And what have I said?
That's Scriptural, and I quoted it from memory. So what if the main reason I know it is because Bobby McFerrin used it in a song? He happens to be a genius. If he's touring, you'd do yourself a favor to see him perform. So simple, yet brilliant.
Halfway through week four and I'd've ("I would" plus "would have" should have its own contraction) liked to've ("to have" - why not?) thought they'd get easier by now. Like working out. Or running. Once you hit a point where you're doing it every day, you'll miss it when you skip it. Except I've never once in my life regretted the absence of working out or running. Even if writing is my passion, I'm not much of a passionate person.
Is this blog properly absorbing my ideas? I had to think for five minutes of a decent Facebook status update, and I can normally spawn one-liners like an amateur magician on a riverboat. Speaking of which, a friend is holding his 40th birthday party tomorrow, and as gifts, he's asked each of his guests to prepare two minutes of stand up comedy. This should be easy for me. Sarcastic quips and quick shots are first-nature; I have to force myself into the second nature of kindness and gentleness. I even have a "Too Soon" theme - tasteless jokes told too soon after the death of prominent figures. Where is the acceptability line for offensive tributes?
Come to think of it, I used to write "spotlights" for a play-by-mail game, where my theme had less substance than a Seinfeld episode. Nothing about nothing about nothing. I enjoyed writing them, my audience patronized me with compliments, and by the end of it, I had regular contributions about zip. Much like this blog. Five paragraphs already? And what have I said?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Two Things I'll Never Use
The five-minute commute to my car after work affords me too much thinking time. I don't use it to obsess over work or figure out my itinerary for the evening. Rather, my mind wanders to uncharted territories. For example:
Two idiots get in an argument about whether or not Philly should've ever moved the statue of Rocky.
1: Dude, it's a historical monument.
2: No, it's not. It's a fictional character.
1: Rocky Balboa? No way.
2: Completely. Conceived, written, directed, and acted by Sylvester Stallone.
1: Seriously?
2: Yes. So it doesn't matter whether it's in front of the stadium or the art museum. You may as well put it in front of Stallone's house, if he owns a place here.
1: Hmm. Yeah, I guess it'd be like the Viatnamese arguing over where to put a statue of Rambo.
2: Um, no. No, it's not like that at all.
And another, dumber, cruder:
Thinking how my wife is so innocent/naive, she couldn't recite the infamous dirty limerick opening "There once was a man from Nantucket."
Comeback: Oh yeah? Well, your dick couldn't even do your belly button.
If the above truths lead you to contribute toward the "Jim Becker Needs an iPod" Fund, please remember your checks will be cashed, it is not tax-refundable, and there's no guarantee my music won't provide even odder inspiration(s).
Two idiots get in an argument about whether or not Philly should've ever moved the statue of Rocky.
1: Dude, it's a historical monument.
2: No, it's not. It's a fictional character.
1: Rocky Balboa? No way.
2: Completely. Conceived, written, directed, and acted by Sylvester Stallone.
1: Seriously?
2: Yes. So it doesn't matter whether it's in front of the stadium or the art museum. You may as well put it in front of Stallone's house, if he owns a place here.
1: Hmm. Yeah, I guess it'd be like the Viatnamese arguing over where to put a statue of Rambo.
2: Um, no. No, it's not like that at all.
And another, dumber, cruder:
Thinking how my wife is so innocent/naive, she couldn't recite the infamous dirty limerick opening "There once was a man from Nantucket."
Comeback: Oh yeah? Well, your dick couldn't even do your belly button.
If the above truths lead you to contribute toward the "Jim Becker Needs an iPod" Fund, please remember your checks will be cashed, it is not tax-refundable, and there's no guarantee my music won't provide even odder inspiration(s).
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Not Enough Of It
Is there any worthier procrastination than "something else"?
My self-imposed deadline for rewriting a 10,000-word story is tomorrow. Thus far, I'm still in three digit territory. I have the rough draft and much of it will be copying, pasting, and applying a light paintbrush. Sure, sure, I don't like the current ending segment so I need to concoct a new resolution, and that has caused me great trepidation. In light of that, I continually postpone picking up where I left off yesterday, opting instead to read Ebert's reviews, search for new publishing opportunities for already written (and already rejected multiple times) stories, check the Phillies' box score (when I don't care about pro baseball)... I haven't resorted to emery boarding my nails or updating my correspondence with long overdue email responses yet, but it's only 10:00. Oh yeah, and I'm doing this blog now.
Smooth. Write about putting things off. Feed the beast.
This must be what writers refer to when they preach how important it is to put something together not only during inspired times, but during the mundane. A writer writes. Billy-flipping-Crystal.
There's a dark humor sight gag here - with each new paragraph started, I'm staving off what I've declared important for yet that much longer. Which is why I'm cutting this off immedia
My self-imposed deadline for rewriting a 10,000-word story is tomorrow. Thus far, I'm still in three digit territory. I have the rough draft and much of it will be copying, pasting, and applying a light paintbrush. Sure, sure, I don't like the current ending segment so I need to concoct a new resolution, and that has caused me great trepidation. In light of that, I continually postpone picking up where I left off yesterday, opting instead to read Ebert's reviews, search for new publishing opportunities for already written (and already rejected multiple times) stories, check the Phillies' box score (when I don't care about pro baseball)... I haven't resorted to emery boarding my nails or updating my correspondence with long overdue email responses yet, but it's only 10:00. Oh yeah, and I'm doing this blog now.
Smooth. Write about putting things off. Feed the beast.
This must be what writers refer to when they preach how important it is to put something together not only during inspired times, but during the mundane. A writer writes. Billy-flipping-Crystal.
There's a dark humor sight gag here - with each new paragraph started, I'm staving off what I've declared important for yet that much longer. Which is why I'm cutting this off immedia
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