I don't dance.
I'm sitting here in the living room. Buddy's sitting on the ottoman staring at me. Cleo's scrunched between pillows, sleeping. My hands are cold. It's normal. My hands are always cold.
I've just returned from the other room with my New York Football Giants fleece blanket. No, it's not a snuggie.
I sip my Pitch Black IPA.
And there's something on the television. Most of you know that I'm not a huge fan of television. The last show I followed with any regularity by choice was West Wing. Oh, and what's on the television is a reality show. Gag me with a spoon...
I'm trying not to pay attention. I'm succeeding for the most part. But still I can't avoid the ridiculous drama, the terrible singing, the crotchety British judge, and Tom Bergeron.
You got it; it's Dancing with the Stars.
What's worse is that it brings back memories. And I'm not talking about an appearance on a ridiculous reality television show.
I was in college. Somewhere in the midst of my math education major phase. I had a steady girlfriend. Steph, of Paraguayan descent. And Steph, of Paraguayan descent, wanted to dance. No, not at a club. Nor at a wedding.
Buzz Aldrin dances. If it were anyone else, it would be a trainwreck. But this guy walked on the moon. So, he gets a pass.
She wanted to dance. Like ballroom dance. Me. And ballroom dance.
I've tried to forget that part of my life. With a memory like mine, I've almost succeeded. But every so often, I hear the female instructor rhythmically chant 'Tee' (pause) 'Ay' (pause) 'En Gee Oh'. And then it all comes rushing back. The waltz. The cha cha. The foxtrot. The tango. I enjoyed watching Steph. She had a natural talent for movement on the dance floor. I, on the other hand, dreaded every moment spent on the hardwood. Trainwreck is being nice.
I tried. I really did. But I had no rhythm. And the very fact that I dreaded it meant that I was doomed to fail before I had begun.
I think I'd be better at it now if I were to try it again. Because I understand that it's about having the confidence.
But don't get me wrong, it'll be a cold day in hell before I try it again.
Because I don't dance.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
3WW (Brazen, Hunger, Nuzzle): Good Fences
The Listons had lived in the fourteen hundred square foot house with one and three quarters bath for twenty-six years to the day as of the date the Thayers became their neighbors; they watched from their kitchen window as the young couple, with their beautiful golden retriever, unpacked the half-filled Ryder truck. It brought back so many memories. A time before Robert’s unforgettable tenth birthday. Before the washer flooded the basement. Before the ugliest wallpaper in the world was removed.
The following day, George and Emily Liston made the short trip across the yard and knocked on the large white door. They readied their smiles. Glenn Thayer answered and invited the Listons into the house to meet his new wife, Lily. George and Emily offered the bread and wine they brought. That they may never know hunger or thirst. A tradition they had learned from It’s a Wonderful Life. They shared small talk. The Thayer’s golden, Grady, nuzzled Emily’s leg. And when they left, the Listons wished the Thayers good luck with their new home. A good start.
About six months later, deep into the humidity of August, George glanced out his window to see an odd sight. Glenn was digging large holes along the property line. It didn’t immediately dawn on George that Glenn was building a fence. Well, not until Glenn started erecting the posts. George walked out casually and started with some small talk about the weather. He soon turned the conversation to Glenn’s project. Glenn joked that good fences make good neighbors, a Robert Frost original. George wasn’t amused, especially since the fence, he claimed, was on his property. The conversation took a turn for the worse. George stormed away. And Glenn kept building.
Soon, the fence stood between the Listons and Thayers. And that wasn’t the only boundary. Emily heard George complain about that brazen eyesore. And Lily listened as Glenn barked about their completely unreasonable neighbor.
In early September, a category four hurricane named Lucy hit the neighborhood. It ripped roofs from houses. It damaged cars. And it completely destroyed the fence between the feuding neighbors. The following weekend, Glenn gathered the splintered wood and made a trip to the local dump.
He didn’t build another fence.
Nor did he and George ever speak again.
The following day, George and Emily Liston made the short trip across the yard and knocked on the large white door. They readied their smiles. Glenn Thayer answered and invited the Listons into the house to meet his new wife, Lily. George and Emily offered the bread and wine they brought. That they may never know hunger or thirst. A tradition they had learned from It’s a Wonderful Life. They shared small talk. The Thayer’s golden, Grady, nuzzled Emily’s leg. And when they left, the Listons wished the Thayers good luck with their new home. A good start.
About six months later, deep into the humidity of August, George glanced out his window to see an odd sight. Glenn was digging large holes along the property line. It didn’t immediately dawn on George that Glenn was building a fence. Well, not until Glenn started erecting the posts. George walked out casually and started with some small talk about the weather. He soon turned the conversation to Glenn’s project. Glenn joked that good fences make good neighbors, a Robert Frost original. George wasn’t amused, especially since the fence, he claimed, was on his property. The conversation took a turn for the worse. George stormed away. And Glenn kept building.
Soon, the fence stood between the Listons and Thayers. And that wasn’t the only boundary. Emily heard George complain about that brazen eyesore. And Lily listened as Glenn barked about their completely unreasonable neighbor.
In early September, a category four hurricane named Lucy hit the neighborhood. It ripped roofs from houses. It damaged cars. And it completely destroyed the fence between the feuding neighbors. The following weekend, Glenn gathered the splintered wood and made a trip to the local dump.
He didn’t build another fence.
Nor did he and George ever speak again.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
It's Personal: Free Pastry
Names have been changed to protect the incoherent. No, not really. I'll use the real names; I don't think they'll mind.
Karina gave us coupons. Well, gave us each the same coupon. I think she gave it to others too. It wasn't one of those unique coupons for a free trip to the moon or anything. It was a coupon printed from her email, I think. A coupon for a free pastry at Starbucks. Of course, there was a caveat; you had to buy a drink too. Easy.
When I arrived this morning, the copied coupon stared at me. I placed it on my desk where I couldn't miss it. I didn't miss it. I walked into Olympus and waved the coupon. 'You wanna go?' she asked. 'Yep,' I said. So, we hightailed it downstairs. Well, I can't say it was exactly hightailing given the speed of the elevators in the building. So, I suppose it's more accurate to say we hightailed it to the elevators and then meandered downward into the abyss of the lobby.
We exited the elevator and looked toward the Starbucks located conveniently in the lobby of the building. A line. Were we surprised? Nah. I mean, we couldn't have been the only ones who knew about the free pastry. It was a nationwide thing, after all. So, we traded glances and she said, 'Later?' I nodded, 'Yep.' So, we walked back to the elevator, meanderingly ascended and loped back to our desks.
The team engaged in meetings for one hour and forty-five minutes.
Right, forgot to tell you an important catch. The free pastry coupon was only good on March 23rd until 10:30 a.m. Pacific. So, we stopped the meeting at 10:15 a.m. Pacific. Tara and I retrieved our coupons. And we hightailed it to the elevators again. We hit the lobby somewhere in the 10:20 a.m. Pacific timeframe. We looked towards Starbucks. No line. We half jogged to the front doors.
We looked across the store and spied the case that held the pastries. It wasn't empty. Success. With ten minutes to spare. The manager and a peon watched as Tara and I traversed the tiny store. The peon, usually bordering on mute, became suddenly animated. 'Oh, are you here for the free pastry?' she asked as she watched us wave the coupons like a banner. Her tone next bordered on aggresive, 'Those pastries aren't free; we can't give them away.'
I had made it to the case before Tara. I saw doughnuts, muffins, cookies, and pastries plenty. No, it wasn't stocked. But there they were in all their calorific glory. And we still had eight minutes.
She continued to explain, more in a pleading way, 'We have to sell some pastries today. The supply was limited like it says on the coupon.' Yes, in fact there in bold was the statement that supply was limited. The peon settled. 'Can I get anything started for you?'
Tara looked like she was somewhere between perplexed and vexed. Closer to vexed if I had to choose. She didn't look directly at the peon. I was a little concerned that she would. The peon repeated the question about whether we wanted anything. Tara turned briefly and said succinctly, 'No.' I followed suit but with an attempted smile. I'm not sure it came off. Not that I care altogether much.
We walked back to the elevators. I said, 'It just doesn't make business sense.' Tara said something to the effect of 'It's firetrucking stupid.' Except it wasn't firetrucking. And we ascended in the slow elevators back to the conference room.
Empty handed again.
Karina gave us coupons. Well, gave us each the same coupon. I think she gave it to others too. It wasn't one of those unique coupons for a free trip to the moon or anything. It was a coupon printed from her email, I think. A coupon for a free pastry at Starbucks. Of course, there was a caveat; you had to buy a drink too. Easy.
When I arrived this morning, the copied coupon stared at me. I placed it on my desk where I couldn't miss it. I didn't miss it. I walked into Olympus and waved the coupon. 'You wanna go?' she asked. 'Yep,' I said. So, we hightailed it downstairs. Well, I can't say it was exactly hightailing given the speed of the elevators in the building. So, I suppose it's more accurate to say we hightailed it to the elevators and then meandered downward into the abyss of the lobby.
We exited the elevator and looked toward the Starbucks located conveniently in the lobby of the building. A line. Were we surprised? Nah. I mean, we couldn't have been the only ones who knew about the free pastry. It was a nationwide thing, after all. So, we traded glances and she said, 'Later?' I nodded, 'Yep.' So, we walked back to the elevator, meanderingly ascended and loped back to our desks.
The team engaged in meetings for one hour and forty-five minutes.
Right, forgot to tell you an important catch. The free pastry coupon was only good on March 23rd until 10:30 a.m. Pacific. So, we stopped the meeting at 10:15 a.m. Pacific. Tara and I retrieved our coupons. And we hightailed it to the elevators again. We hit the lobby somewhere in the 10:20 a.m. Pacific timeframe. We looked towards Starbucks. No line. We half jogged to the front doors.
We looked across the store and spied the case that held the pastries. It wasn't empty. Success. With ten minutes to spare. The manager and a peon watched as Tara and I traversed the tiny store. The peon, usually bordering on mute, became suddenly animated. 'Oh, are you here for the free pastry?' she asked as she watched us wave the coupons like a banner. Her tone next bordered on aggresive, 'Those pastries aren't free; we can't give them away.'
I had made it to the case before Tara. I saw doughnuts, muffins, cookies, and pastries plenty. No, it wasn't stocked. But there they were in all their calorific glory. And we still had eight minutes.
She continued to explain, more in a pleading way, 'We have to sell some pastries today. The supply was limited like it says on the coupon.' Yes, in fact there in bold was the statement that supply was limited. The peon settled. 'Can I get anything started for you?'
Tara looked like she was somewhere between perplexed and vexed. Closer to vexed if I had to choose. She didn't look directly at the peon. I was a little concerned that she would. The peon repeated the question about whether we wanted anything. Tara turned briefly and said succinctly, 'No.' I followed suit but with an attempted smile. I'm not sure it came off. Not that I care altogether much.
We walked back to the elevators. I said, 'It just doesn't make business sense.' Tara said something to the effect of 'It's firetrucking stupid.' Except it wasn't firetrucking. And we ascended in the slow elevators back to the conference room.
Empty handed again.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
3WW (Pulse, Shard, Weary): Decided Outcomes
They had already decided the outcome. Twenty years couldn’t save them. Neither could their three children. Not the joint accounts. Not the house, worth less than the mortgage. Not the marriage certificate placed neatly in the top drawer of the file cabinet. They had tried a counselor, a long weekend together in the Poconos, and a week apart. They told the kids that dad had a business trip. They felt weary, drained from the ordeal. Where love had once flourished, only frustration and doubt remained.
Andy woke to find himself on the futon. Sheets kicked off. The pillow wet from his drool. He looked at the alarm clock. Late again. His wife didn’t wake him anymore. Not since the day he told her to stop harping on him. He showered and shaved, grabbed a chocolate filled pop tart and took a bite. He tossed the rest into the garbage, remembering too late how much he hated pop tarts.
He started the car, let it warm. Checked his almost dead crackberry. Of course, he forgot to charge it the night before. A few new messages. One from his boss reminding him of the job for which he couldn’t be late. For which he was already late. The next message was also from his boss; he didn’t read it. The Civic sped down the highway. The sticker in the upper left of the windshield mocked him; he was three months late and about 5000 miles over. No time to think about an oil change.
His pulse quickened as the traffic thickened. But he stayed at a steady 60 mph and reached the exit to the hospital in short order. He paid no attention to the incoming messages of his irate boss. Instead, he pulled into an illegal parking space and raced to the elevators that would take him to the fourth floor. He stepped into the room 12 minutes late. And the doctor proceeded to take another 7 minutes to explain how valuable her time was. By the time she finished, the truck with the new equipment had arrived, meaning that everything – at 20 minutes late – was right on time.
Still, Andy felt the pressure of making this move perfect. He hadn’t been living up to the reputation that preceded him from his prior job. Not since his relationship had plummeted into the abyss of uncertainty. He knew he needed only to focus and he’d make it work. He could show how he had come to be known as ‘Handy Andy’.
The move was a relatively simple one. A swap. A new piece of machinery for an old one. The keys to moving two-ton pieces of machinery are levers and wheels. If either one fails, then, unless you have at least four men from a strong man competition, it’s going to be a while. Andy instructed his assistant to position himself on the opposite side of the machine. Andy needed to nudge the machine from its resting place with a lever – the wheels had made an indentation in the floor from the weight of the machine – and then they could begin to wheel it towards the door. Slowly.
The lever worked. So did the rolling. For about three feet. Then one of the wheels began to wobble. Andy’s instinct was to grab for the bottom to lift it. But no man could lift two tons. The wheel failed and the machine’s full weight came down on Andy’s hand. In a split second, it was over.
The nurse ran to Andy to see the damage. But there was no damage. Instead, Andy’s left hand was unscathed. She looked to the ground and saw shards of tile where the wheel had failed. But no blood. No sign of an injury. Andy just sat on the ground. The doctor entered and asked what the hell he was doing on the floor. But Andy said nothing. Nor did the nurse. Instead, Andy stood and grabbed the lever. He gave instructions to his assistant to steady the machine. And he lifted the machine to put the wheel back into place. The nurse noticed that he slipped a piece of the tile into his pocket.
The move went smoothly after that. Handy Andy had worked his magic.
That night, Andy arrived home well after his wife. Instead of avoiding her, as he had each of the previous nights that week, he went into ‘their’ room and closed the door.
‘Andy, we can’t keep talking about this. We’ve tried everything.’ She waited for him to start in on his usual rant.
‘Not everything,’ was all he said.
She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he raised his left hand to her face. She eyed his hand for a moment. Then her eyes widened.
‘You took off the ring.’
‘Nope,’ he countered quickly.
She grimaced. ‘Well, it’s not on your finger.’
He pulled the dented titanium ring from his pocket and showed her.
‘How the hell did you do that?’
He told her.
She waited for him to finish. Then, she waited longer. He didn’t interrupt the silence. In fact, the silence lingered until morning when they awoke in each others’ arms. It seems the outcome had not yet been decided.
Andy woke to find himself on the futon. Sheets kicked off. The pillow wet from his drool. He looked at the alarm clock. Late again. His wife didn’t wake him anymore. Not since the day he told her to stop harping on him. He showered and shaved, grabbed a chocolate filled pop tart and took a bite. He tossed the rest into the garbage, remembering too late how much he hated pop tarts.
He started the car, let it warm. Checked his almost dead crackberry. Of course, he forgot to charge it the night before. A few new messages. One from his boss reminding him of the job for which he couldn’t be late. For which he was already late. The next message was also from his boss; he didn’t read it. The Civic sped down the highway. The sticker in the upper left of the windshield mocked him; he was three months late and about 5000 miles over. No time to think about an oil change.
His pulse quickened as the traffic thickened. But he stayed at a steady 60 mph and reached the exit to the hospital in short order. He paid no attention to the incoming messages of his irate boss. Instead, he pulled into an illegal parking space and raced to the elevators that would take him to the fourth floor. He stepped into the room 12 minutes late. And the doctor proceeded to take another 7 minutes to explain how valuable her time was. By the time she finished, the truck with the new equipment had arrived, meaning that everything – at 20 minutes late – was right on time.
Still, Andy felt the pressure of making this move perfect. He hadn’t been living up to the reputation that preceded him from his prior job. Not since his relationship had plummeted into the abyss of uncertainty. He knew he needed only to focus and he’d make it work. He could show how he had come to be known as ‘Handy Andy’.
The move was a relatively simple one. A swap. A new piece of machinery for an old one. The keys to moving two-ton pieces of machinery are levers and wheels. If either one fails, then, unless you have at least four men from a strong man competition, it’s going to be a while. Andy instructed his assistant to position himself on the opposite side of the machine. Andy needed to nudge the machine from its resting place with a lever – the wheels had made an indentation in the floor from the weight of the machine – and then they could begin to wheel it towards the door. Slowly.
The lever worked. So did the rolling. For about three feet. Then one of the wheels began to wobble. Andy’s instinct was to grab for the bottom to lift it. But no man could lift two tons. The wheel failed and the machine’s full weight came down on Andy’s hand. In a split second, it was over.
The nurse ran to Andy to see the damage. But there was no damage. Instead, Andy’s left hand was unscathed. She looked to the ground and saw shards of tile where the wheel had failed. But no blood. No sign of an injury. Andy just sat on the ground. The doctor entered and asked what the hell he was doing on the floor. But Andy said nothing. Nor did the nurse. Instead, Andy stood and grabbed the lever. He gave instructions to his assistant to steady the machine. And he lifted the machine to put the wheel back into place. The nurse noticed that he slipped a piece of the tile into his pocket.
The move went smoothly after that. Handy Andy had worked his magic.
That night, Andy arrived home well after his wife. Instead of avoiding her, as he had each of the previous nights that week, he went into ‘their’ room and closed the door.
‘Andy, we can’t keep talking about this. We’ve tried everything.’ She waited for him to start in on his usual rant.
‘Not everything,’ was all he said.
She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he raised his left hand to her face. She eyed his hand for a moment. Then her eyes widened.
‘You took off the ring.’
‘Nope,’ he countered quickly.
She grimaced. ‘Well, it’s not on your finger.’
He pulled the dented titanium ring from his pocket and showed her.
‘How the hell did you do that?’
He told her.
She waited for him to finish. Then, she waited longer. He didn’t interrupt the silence. In fact, the silence lingered until morning when they awoke in each others’ arms. It seems the outcome had not yet been decided.
Monday, March 15, 2010
It's Personal: The Video Game I Beat
It was 1988. My brother and I visited the old man at his newly rented apartment in the wilds of Meriden. I can't remember if it was a Wednesday or a Friday. And there beneath the old man's television was the dark and light grey Nintendo console. Beside the box were a new-fangled laser gun and two controllers. My brother and I raced to them and obligatorily tried Duck Hunt for about 30 seconds. And then we moved to Super Mario Brothers. I can't even begin to say how many hours I spent playing that game. But I didn't beat it...
Soon after, I tried my hand at Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I beat Bald Bull, Soda Popinski, Don Flamenco, Glass Joe, and King Hippo. But did I ever beat Mike Tyson himself? Nope...
I played the Legend of Zelda. And then stopped after I got bored.
Tecmo Bowl. I couldn't beat the Bears.
Tetris? Yeah right...
Super Mario Brothers 2 was just weird with all the digging.
And Super Mario Brothers 3, forget the high level dungeons.
Ninja Gaiden was fun. But it wasn't much fun without someone else with whom to play.
And Contra was awesome with all those different types of weapons, but I lost interest.
No, there was only one game that kept me coming back. Day upon day and night after night, I hoarded the NES playing this RPG. And most to whom I speak do not remember it. It's name? Dragon Warrior. (It's name later changed to Dragon Quest.) I can't tell you how many different colored slimes I fought to get to the end of that game. And on the night I got to the end, I saw the dawn of the next day without going to sleep. I think it might have been the first time I had ever stayed up an entire night.
But it was during summer vacation, so it was all good...
Soon after, I tried my hand at Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I beat Bald Bull, Soda Popinski, Don Flamenco, Glass Joe, and King Hippo. But did I ever beat Mike Tyson himself? Nope...
I played the Legend of Zelda. And then stopped after I got bored.
Tecmo Bowl. I couldn't beat the Bears.
Tetris? Yeah right...
Super Mario Brothers 2 was just weird with all the digging.
And Super Mario Brothers 3, forget the high level dungeons.
Ninja Gaiden was fun. But it wasn't much fun without someone else with whom to play.
And Contra was awesome with all those different types of weapons, but I lost interest.
No, there was only one game that kept me coming back. Day upon day and night after night, I hoarded the NES playing this RPG. And most to whom I speak do not remember it. It's name? Dragon Warrior. (It's name later changed to Dragon Quest.) I can't tell you how many different colored slimes I fought to get to the end of that game. And on the night I got to the end, I saw the dawn of the next day without going to sleep. I think it might have been the first time I had ever stayed up an entire night.
But it was during summer vacation, so it was all good...
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Sporting Rants and Raves: March 13, 2010
Hello sports fans. And non-sports fans. Which I think covers all people in the world. Unless you consider some kind of scale along which a person can like sports in which case there may be quasi-sports fans and die-hard sports fans and somewhat-sports fans.
It has been a while since I've posted a Sporting Rants & Raves. And I'm sure you're looking for the Happy Birthday. It's coming. I want to warn you, first, that I haven't been watching sports recently. Because of a few things happening in my life and more importantly because football and baseball aren't being actively played, I've not been much in tune. I cannot, therefore, promise to say anything particularly intelligent or earth-shattering in this post, not that I do as much in any other post I post. So, without further adieu, I give you a more absurd rants and raves.
Happy 46th birthday to Mr. Will Clark. No, not that Will Clark of Lewis and Clark fame. Or Will Clark the porn actor (yes, really). Or Will Clark the Canadian skier. I'm talking about Will Clark the guy who good but not great on the San Francisco Giants and Texas Rangers. (For which other two teams did he play?) Hey, at least he's in the Mississippi Sports Hall of Fame.
We're in March, so that means madness. Above and beyond the normal madness that seems to afflict everyone during every other month of the year. But to be fair, we haven't started the actual madness, as it were. In other words, random people aren't approaching me to enter their 'pools' to win money that I don't think anyone ever actually wins. Unless you're a person who doesn't actually follow basketball at all and who therefore chooses the teams based on their school colors and/or mascot. Well, maybe I have a shot. Then again, I know that UCONN has sucked, so probably not.
Upstart Minnesota mauling number 6 Purdue: If I were a Boilermaker, I'd be embarrassed about a mauling at the hands of not just gophers but golden gophers.
Singler, Scheyer rally number 4 Duke into ACC Final: There was a time when I sincerely disliked Duke. And in this sense, times haven't changed much. And yet, they're still always good. Blast them.
Tomlinson heads home unsigned after Jets visit: Many people are having a hard time finding work. But I think the person I'd least like to be is an NFL running back over 30 years of age. So, not really. He'll still get paid more than I somewhere. But I don't envy his position...
The Boss plans to attend opening day: Good for him. He's starting to remind me of the potentially deceased dictator of North Korea.
Kentucky rolls, will play for first SEC title since 04: This is one of those headlines - along with my past knowledge of Kentucky basketball - that will influence me to choose KY to go deep in the bracket. It's also one of those headlines that screws me out of whatever winnings there might be when the bracket has been decided.
Houston stuns UTEP, wins first NCAA bid since 92: I've always thought UTEP sounded like some kind of pharoah's son. Utep, the son of Amenhotep, lifted the scarab from the ground.
Vermont captures NCAA berth: I once had a conversation with someone in the Pacific Northwest about the state from which I came. I told him I was originally from Connecticut. He asked if that was a city up near Vermont. Now, first, really? Second, how is it that he could describe Connecticut as a city 'up near' Vermont? As if it were somewhere in Canada or something.
Roethlisberger's lawyer hires private investigator: I read an editorial recently that claimed that Big Ben is already guilty. Not necessarily of sexual assault. But of bad judgment. I couldn't agree more. I wish the commish could just tell some of these players to grow the hell up.
WVU, Georgetown play for Big East title: Notice no UCONN. Terrible. Notice also no Syracuse. Woo hoo. There is balance in the world.
Redskins sign Larry Johnson for 3 years: Speaking of growing the hell up, we get this story. But there's one catch that makes me pause. Mike Shanahan ain't gonna put up with crap. Not to mention that Denver - when Mike was there - was a running back heaven. There may be something here. Which isn't great for the Jints.
And with that, I end this week's edition. Until next I write, happy sporting...
It has been a while since I've posted a Sporting Rants & Raves. And I'm sure you're looking for the Happy Birthday. It's coming. I want to warn you, first, that I haven't been watching sports recently. Because of a few things happening in my life and more importantly because football and baseball aren't being actively played, I've not been much in tune. I cannot, therefore, promise to say anything particularly intelligent or earth-shattering in this post, not that I do as much in any other post I post. So, without further adieu, I give you a more absurd rants and raves.
Happy 46th birthday to Mr. Will Clark. No, not that Will Clark of Lewis and Clark fame. Or Will Clark the porn actor (yes, really). Or Will Clark the Canadian skier. I'm talking about Will Clark the guy who good but not great on the San Francisco Giants and Texas Rangers. (For which other two teams did he play?) Hey, at least he's in the Mississippi Sports Hall of Fame.
We're in March, so that means madness. Above and beyond the normal madness that seems to afflict everyone during every other month of the year. But to be fair, we haven't started the actual madness, as it were. In other words, random people aren't approaching me to enter their 'pools' to win money that I don't think anyone ever actually wins. Unless you're a person who doesn't actually follow basketball at all and who therefore chooses the teams based on their school colors and/or mascot. Well, maybe I have a shot. Then again, I know that UCONN has sucked, so probably not.
Upstart Minnesota mauling number 6 Purdue: If I were a Boilermaker, I'd be embarrassed about a mauling at the hands of not just gophers but golden gophers.
Singler, Scheyer rally number 4 Duke into ACC Final: There was a time when I sincerely disliked Duke. And in this sense, times haven't changed much. And yet, they're still always good. Blast them.
Tomlinson heads home unsigned after Jets visit: Many people are having a hard time finding work. But I think the person I'd least like to be is an NFL running back over 30 years of age. So, not really. He'll still get paid more than I somewhere. But I don't envy his position...
The Boss plans to attend opening day: Good for him. He's starting to remind me of the potentially deceased dictator of North Korea.
Kentucky rolls, will play for first SEC title since 04: This is one of those headlines - along with my past knowledge of Kentucky basketball - that will influence me to choose KY to go deep in the bracket. It's also one of those headlines that screws me out of whatever winnings there might be when the bracket has been decided.
Houston stuns UTEP, wins first NCAA bid since 92: I've always thought UTEP sounded like some kind of pharoah's son. Utep, the son of Amenhotep, lifted the scarab from the ground.
Vermont captures NCAA berth: I once had a conversation with someone in the Pacific Northwest about the state from which I came. I told him I was originally from Connecticut. He asked if that was a city up near Vermont. Now, first, really? Second, how is it that he could describe Connecticut as a city 'up near' Vermont? As if it were somewhere in Canada or something.
Roethlisberger's lawyer hires private investigator: I read an editorial recently that claimed that Big Ben is already guilty. Not necessarily of sexual assault. But of bad judgment. I couldn't agree more. I wish the commish could just tell some of these players to grow the hell up.
WVU, Georgetown play for Big East title: Notice no UCONN. Terrible. Notice also no Syracuse. Woo hoo. There is balance in the world.
Redskins sign Larry Johnson for 3 years: Speaking of growing the hell up, we get this story. But there's one catch that makes me pause. Mike Shanahan ain't gonna put up with crap. Not to mention that Denver - when Mike was there - was a running back heaven. There may be something here. Which isn't great for the Jints.
And with that, I end this week's edition. Until next I write, happy sporting...
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Indifference
It’s the wheezing of a fat man,
The lion gutting the young wildebeest,
A leg not broken but shattered under the weight of a Harley.
It’s the merlot and angel hair vomit,
The thud of the dropping body,
A chilled pint of Tabasco with warm lemonade and whole milk.
It’s the pang in the pit of your stomach
The feeling of utter and bitter disgust,
A need to ogle mixed with a need to run until your feet bleed.
I am staring at the face of indifference.
The lion gutting the young wildebeest,
A leg not broken but shattered under the weight of a Harley.
It’s the merlot and angel hair vomit,
The thud of the dropping body,
A chilled pint of Tabasco with warm lemonade and whole milk.
It’s the pang in the pit of your stomach
The feeling of utter and bitter disgust,
A need to ogle mixed with a need to run until your feet bleed.
I am staring at the face of indifference.
Monday, March 8, 2010
It's Personal: Alice
It was a beautiful day in Seattle. Saturday, that is. This past Saturday. When it was sunny. And warm. A beautiful day. But I see I've already said as much.
The day ended uneventfully. At the end of the day. It was dark out, I remember. But there wasn't much else. A bit of work on the plan for softball practice. Apart from that, however, there was the digestion of the dinner I didn't have that evening.
Sometime during the day we went to a place called Roxy's up north. Not so far north that you start going south, mind you, but far enough north that it wasn't south of where we started. There's a deli-like atmosphere at Roxy's. Small tables and small chairs for big people who don't fit at and in them. A bar of mirror and multivariate bottles with the devil's drink. I had eggs with sausage and pancakes at noon. With iced tea, always unsweetened.
We departed the theater sometime later after the moving picture ceased to show us pictures of interest. Just flashing names of grips and tographers of cinema. The sticky ground with clumps of popped corn. Who thought to pop the first corn, I wonder. Or put fizz in water with sugar and syrup of the might fructose corn stalk. It was dark then. With people walking to and fro. In out doors. Out in doors. It was a chaos of sorts, tempered by screaming children.
We tried the theater at the mall in all its sunny gloom. The giant Eastwood aiming his dirty harry gun at Elizabeth Taylor and her violet eyes. There were broken lines of old people interspersed with new people hopping up and down in impatient glee. With people neither old nor new attempting to smile at both the old and new people but not much succeeding. We looked at one another without three dimensional glasses and determined we would make a four dimensional escape across time.
There was a lull during the warm day when we sat at home and stared at what might have been a fire in the fireplace if we had firewood. Or fire. Or kindling. Or if it wasn't so warm out. There was no tension to break. No movement. Almost no silence except that there was. Between the clicks of the dogs' nails.
We decided on a non-three dimensional showing at another theater at a place called the landing in Renton near Boeing. Which I don't think was named because it was a place that was once a landing. For planes or boats. Or trains or automobiles, for that matter. Just a landing. Or the landing to be more correct from an articled perspective.
The movie began and ended with moving pictures in between fraught with computer-generated imagery and talented actors. Row, row, row your boat. A hatter, mad as can be on stage and off, danced impossibly and fought the same. Gently down the stream. A big-headed queen with her knave provided some what might be considered humor in an anti-non-Vaudevillian sort of way. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. And from the moving pictures, there came to me a lesson I have not yet unlearned. Life is but a dream.
The day ended uneventfully. At the end of the day. It was dark out, I remember. But there wasn't much else. A bit of work on the plan for softball practice. Apart from that, however, there was the digestion of the dinner I didn't have that evening.
Sometime during the day we went to a place called Roxy's up north. Not so far north that you start going south, mind you, but far enough north that it wasn't south of where we started. There's a deli-like atmosphere at Roxy's. Small tables and small chairs for big people who don't fit at and in them. A bar of mirror and multivariate bottles with the devil's drink. I had eggs with sausage and pancakes at noon. With iced tea, always unsweetened.
We departed the theater sometime later after the moving picture ceased to show us pictures of interest. Just flashing names of grips and tographers of cinema. The sticky ground with clumps of popped corn. Who thought to pop the first corn, I wonder. Or put fizz in water with sugar and syrup of the might fructose corn stalk. It was dark then. With people walking to and fro. In out doors. Out in doors. It was a chaos of sorts, tempered by screaming children.
We tried the theater at the mall in all its sunny gloom. The giant Eastwood aiming his dirty harry gun at Elizabeth Taylor and her violet eyes. There were broken lines of old people interspersed with new people hopping up and down in impatient glee. With people neither old nor new attempting to smile at both the old and new people but not much succeeding. We looked at one another without three dimensional glasses and determined we would make a four dimensional escape across time.
There was a lull during the warm day when we sat at home and stared at what might have been a fire in the fireplace if we had firewood. Or fire. Or kindling. Or if it wasn't so warm out. There was no tension to break. No movement. Almost no silence except that there was. Between the clicks of the dogs' nails.
We decided on a non-three dimensional showing at another theater at a place called the landing in Renton near Boeing. Which I don't think was named because it was a place that was once a landing. For planes or boats. Or trains or automobiles, for that matter. Just a landing. Or the landing to be more correct from an articled perspective.
The movie began and ended with moving pictures in between fraught with computer-generated imagery and talented actors. Row, row, row your boat. A hatter, mad as can be on stage and off, danced impossibly and fought the same. Gently down the stream. A big-headed queen with her knave provided some what might be considered humor in an anti-non-Vaudevillian sort of way. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. And from the moving pictures, there came to me a lesson I have not yet unlearned. Life is but a dream.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
3WW (Amaze,Frail,Sacred): Callings
I entered the room where he lay. The priest trailed me by a step. It smelled of Pinesol and garlic. An odd combination that sent my already grumbling stomach into minor fits of nausea. On the bed lay a frail man whose healthy form I had seen only in pictures. A man with my eyes. Or I suppose I have his. His large hands rested atop his undulating chest.
The young priest circled the bed and immediately pulled up a chair, ready to perform the anointing. I motioned for him to wait. I wasn’t sure why.
This was the man who had left when I was less than a year old. Who decided he no longer wanted the commitment of a marriage or a child. Who decided to chase some ridiculous dream fighting windmills in far off places. I never could understand why my mother defended a man who had abandoned and betrayed her. But she did. She had forgiven him the moment she knew he said he had to go. I was so tired of hearing that story of the day he left. A kiss on the cheek. A promise of some greater purpose than his family.
A small Hispanic nurse entered. She smiled her dentured smile and spoke with a thick accent, ‘I am sorry to see him go. He is such good man. Are you his son?’
I nodded. I was his son. Well, at least I had been his son for all of nine months, if that. She took my speechlessness for sadness. And I wasn’t going to indicate differently. I just wanted her to leave. And she did soon after.
During one of my angsty teenage moments, I listened to my mother tell the story about how my father was traveling the world and teaching, to care for those less fortunate. The kiss on the cheek. The talk of the greater purpose. I turned on her for the first time in my life. Yelled at her. Told her she was delusional. Told her he probably had another woman, another life. And that we weren’t good enough to keep him around. I remember her reaction to my outburst only because it amazed me; she smiled. ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she told me. ‘But he is a good man.’
The priest sat impatiently, fidgeting. He told me he had another few patients to see. I was about to tell him to proceed when I noticed the old man’s eyes were open. I saw my hazel eyes staring back at me.
The old man turned his head slightly and looked up at the priest. ‘Can you please leave?’
The priest looked startled. ‘Your son asked me to anoint you.’
'Yes, and I appreciate his sentiment. But I don’t need preparation to die. At least not from you. I’d like you to leave. Go and give comfort to others.’
The young priest stood up, obviously annoyed. He walked out without a word. I turned to watch him go and just stared into the anaesthetized hallway, a bit stunned.
‘He didn’t want to be here anyway. I did him a favor.’
I turned back to him. ‘Yeah, it seems you grant them all the time. Like the favor you did me and my mother.’
‘I suppose I deserved that. How are you, son?’
‘Well, I’m standing in front of a dying father I’ve never known wondering if I should just walk out or watch you die. At least the latter would bring closure.’
‘I’ll be dead soon enough. You can have your closure then. Until I’m dead, which is not far off, what questions would you like to ask?’
I stood dumbfounded. Questions? Really? Now? And yet I had so many. Why I had to race in the Pinewood Derby alone. Why I didn’t have anyone to teach me how to hit. Why I had to teach myself to change the oil. ‘Why the hell did you abandon us?’ It was the question I’d always wanted to ask.
‘I had to answer a calling.’
‘A calling.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘A calling? What the hell does that mean? Did you go save some town in Zimbabwe? What the hell does a calling mean?’
The old man’s chuckle turned into a cough. ‘I get that a lot. A calling is a gift from God.’
‘So you were called to abandon your family? Yeah, I’m sure God told you that.’
‘”Then the Lord said, ‘Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord; the Lord will be passing by.’ A strong heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the Lord – but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake – but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire – but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there was a tiny whispering sound.” I listen for the whispering sound.’
‘You’re a religious nutjob.’
‘Is that why I kicked the priest out?’
‘But that’s no reason to leave your family.’
‘Yes, it is. And the Lord has given me the sacred opportunity for closure.’ The old man’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘Son, I love you. Thank you for being here to make my life complete.’
With that, the old man closed his eyes. Within a minute, his heart had slowed considerably. Within five minutes he was gone.
The young priest circled the bed and immediately pulled up a chair, ready to perform the anointing. I motioned for him to wait. I wasn’t sure why.
This was the man who had left when I was less than a year old. Who decided he no longer wanted the commitment of a marriage or a child. Who decided to chase some ridiculous dream fighting windmills in far off places. I never could understand why my mother defended a man who had abandoned and betrayed her. But she did. She had forgiven him the moment she knew he said he had to go. I was so tired of hearing that story of the day he left. A kiss on the cheek. A promise of some greater purpose than his family.
A small Hispanic nurse entered. She smiled her dentured smile and spoke with a thick accent, ‘I am sorry to see him go. He is such good man. Are you his son?’
I nodded. I was his son. Well, at least I had been his son for all of nine months, if that. She took my speechlessness for sadness. And I wasn’t going to indicate differently. I just wanted her to leave. And she did soon after.
During one of my angsty teenage moments, I listened to my mother tell the story about how my father was traveling the world and teaching, to care for those less fortunate. The kiss on the cheek. The talk of the greater purpose. I turned on her for the first time in my life. Yelled at her. Told her she was delusional. Told her he probably had another woman, another life. And that we weren’t good enough to keep him around. I remember her reaction to my outburst only because it amazed me; she smiled. ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she told me. ‘But he is a good man.’
The priest sat impatiently, fidgeting. He told me he had another few patients to see. I was about to tell him to proceed when I noticed the old man’s eyes were open. I saw my hazel eyes staring back at me.
The old man turned his head slightly and looked up at the priest. ‘Can you please leave?’
The priest looked startled. ‘Your son asked me to anoint you.’
'Yes, and I appreciate his sentiment. But I don’t need preparation to die. At least not from you. I’d like you to leave. Go and give comfort to others.’
The young priest stood up, obviously annoyed. He walked out without a word. I turned to watch him go and just stared into the anaesthetized hallway, a bit stunned.
‘He didn’t want to be here anyway. I did him a favor.’
I turned back to him. ‘Yeah, it seems you grant them all the time. Like the favor you did me and my mother.’
‘I suppose I deserved that. How are you, son?’
‘Well, I’m standing in front of a dying father I’ve never known wondering if I should just walk out or watch you die. At least the latter would bring closure.’
‘I’ll be dead soon enough. You can have your closure then. Until I’m dead, which is not far off, what questions would you like to ask?’
I stood dumbfounded. Questions? Really? Now? And yet I had so many. Why I had to race in the Pinewood Derby alone. Why I didn’t have anyone to teach me how to hit. Why I had to teach myself to change the oil. ‘Why the hell did you abandon us?’ It was the question I’d always wanted to ask.
‘I had to answer a calling.’
‘A calling.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘A calling? What the hell does that mean? Did you go save some town in Zimbabwe? What the hell does a calling mean?’
The old man’s chuckle turned into a cough. ‘I get that a lot. A calling is a gift from God.’
‘So you were called to abandon your family? Yeah, I’m sure God told you that.’
‘”Then the Lord said, ‘Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord; the Lord will be passing by.’ A strong heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the Lord – but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake – but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire – but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there was a tiny whispering sound.” I listen for the whispering sound.’
‘You’re a religious nutjob.’
‘Is that why I kicked the priest out?’
‘But that’s no reason to leave your family.’
‘Yes, it is. And the Lord has given me the sacred opportunity for closure.’ The old man’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘Son, I love you. Thank you for being here to make my life complete.’
With that, the old man closed his eyes. Within a minute, his heart had slowed considerably. Within five minutes he was gone.
Monday, March 1, 2010
It's Personal: How I Discovered Personal Email
It was 1996. And I didn't have a personal email address. I don't think it was particularly strange to be in that predicament in 1996. The techies all had one by that time, but I was by no means a techie. I just didn't see the need. I had a school email address, after all. I had used that for both my academic and personal needs. Not to mention that I still wrote the occasional letter to friends and family. Yes, actual snail mail. Again, not uncommon in 1996. Less common 14 years later.
It was around that time that I started asking questions about myself. Without going into detail, I was determining the type of person to whom I was attracted. I've always been a late bloomer. Whereas most people figure that stuff out in high school, it took me until my sophomore year in college to consider such things. So, I went to certain message boards to find discussions about hetero and homosexuality. Innocent enough stuff. And I participated, asking questions and involving myself in conversations. Informative stuff.
Where is the intersection point, you ask?
One day while visiting a message board discussing homosexuality, a person suggested that I get a personal email address. It sounded interesting, but I didn't understand the need since I had an academic address. He suggested that the personal email address would allow me to separate personal from academic. So, I asked him how to go about getting an address. He suggested I get a hotmail address. I wasn't certain what to respond. I was interested in that kind of address (and by that kind of address, I meant one with the word, hot, in it. It sounded to me like the email equivalent of a late night telephone commercial with a buxom blonde speaking in ridiculously whispered tones. He, of course, told me it was completely legitimate. But I would hear nothing more about it.
A short time later, I saw in my academic email inbox a message from a good friend. And that friend had a hotmail address. I decided to do some research at that point and discovered that hotmail was, in fact, legitimate.
Boy, did I feel dumb.
It was around that time that I started asking questions about myself. Without going into detail, I was determining the type of person to whom I was attracted. I've always been a late bloomer. Whereas most people figure that stuff out in high school, it took me until my sophomore year in college to consider such things. So, I went to certain message boards to find discussions about hetero and homosexuality. Innocent enough stuff. And I participated, asking questions and involving myself in conversations. Informative stuff.
Where is the intersection point, you ask?
One day while visiting a message board discussing homosexuality, a person suggested that I get a personal email address. It sounded interesting, but I didn't understand the need since I had an academic address. He suggested that the personal email address would allow me to separate personal from academic. So, I asked him how to go about getting an address. He suggested I get a hotmail address. I wasn't certain what to respond. I was interested in that kind of address (and by that kind of address, I meant one with the word, hot, in it. It sounded to me like the email equivalent of a late night telephone commercial with a buxom blonde speaking in ridiculously whispered tones. He, of course, told me it was completely legitimate. But I would hear nothing more about it.
A short time later, I saw in my academic email inbox a message from a good friend. And that friend had a hotmail address. I decided to do some research at that point and discovered that hotmail was, in fact, legitimate.
Boy, did I feel dumb.
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