An Embarrassment of Riches

08/10/09

2009-08-10T17:22:00.003-05:00

Today was a good day.

Spent most of the morning listening to Joy Division and converting tests for online delivery. Made a couple phone calls with no luck. Hoping to hear back from the "out and about" servicemen in the next couple of days.

For lunch I had a hearty bowl of homemade minestrone and read some more of Ty Cobb's My Life in Baseball while sitting in the backyard. Lucy chomped sticks into oblivion, and Idgie tried to stay away from the bugs and dirt and other outdoor stuff. I've spent most of the summer reading books about late 19th Century and early 20th Century baseball, and this is one of my favorites. I can't put it down. Great read. Ty Cobb is such an interesting figure, and so much of what he and others of their time stood for is gone from baseball today. It's just a different business today.

After lunch, I returned to the test conversions, this time listening to some Dead Kennedys and Gang of Four.

Spoke with Micah this afternoon about the likelihood of combining our Just Two Guys forces for the State Fair parade. We decided we just don't have the time this summer to do it. Sad, really, because we haven't done the show in awhile, and I think it's over. I just think we've both sort of moved on from the show. It was fun while it lasted, and I look forward to getting back into public access again at some point in the future. Maybe I'll do a puppet show.

Aubrey is doing a police ride-along today for work. I'm jealous. I've always wanted to do a police ride-along. It sure in hell beats converting tests, I'm sure.

Spent a little time after work putting away laundry, picking up the house, and getting the recycling ready for tomorrow's pick-up.

Experiences

2009-08-06T20:17:00.002-05:00

This last chunk of my life, I've been pretty down in the dumps. There are a lot of little contributing factors, and I won't bore you with the details of them all. Needless to say, I've felt a lot like Gulliver strapped down by tiny little Lilliputians and their gossamer threads. Individually, I could overcome, but when assembled en masse, I stand no chance. I've been overcome. Just no energy to write or blog or socialize or really do much of anything beyond survive the day.

Today I'm working on my second blog post in two days. That's a big step forward for me. Since I'm feeling a little emotionally and spiritually better, I thought it might be a nice time for me to reflect on a few experiences that mean a lot to me.

1) My trip to Europe in '04 with Aubrey. Nobody likes to hear other people spout cliches about how awesome their trip to Europe was, so I won't spend any time dwelling on details. Instead, I'll just say that the time Aubrey and I spent together in Europe reflects so many of the things I love about our relationship. The love and adventure and curiosity and humor that makes us who we are. I think about this trip every day.

2) The day our dogs came home. I'll never forget the day we got Idgie and Lucy. Aubrey brought them home from the pound, and we both thought at 8 weeks that they'd be soft and slow and cute and cuddly. As soon as they touched foot in the yard, they were a tornado of white and dog puppy, all bounce and yip and growl. We fell in love immediately. The girls have grown up over the last three years, and I've enjoyed every day of their maturity. Sometimes we'll come home from a trip, and we'll have to wait overnight to get them out of boarding, and the house feels so bleak and empty. They fill up our house, and they fill up our lives. I can't imagine life without dogs.

3) The day we got married. So, we didn't go the traditional route to get married. We moved to Richmond, Virginia together and out of the blue decided to get married by a justice of the peace. Once upon a time, we'd tried to go the traditional route, but felt like it just wasn't us. So, we got a marriage license, got married on a Saturday morning by this nice middle-aged justice of the peace in her apartment, and spent the day smiling from ear to ear. We went to Byrd Park in Richmond and enjoyed the beautiful, blustery fall day. It was perfect for us. It was the best day of my life. I'd marry Aubrey again every day. Every single day.

There are tons more, but I'm running out of time tonight. These are the big three for me. Three big moments in my life, that I think have contributed a great deal to the person I am. They're not in any particular order. I just kind of wrote them out as the words came to me.

Public Library Bathroom Blues

2009-08-05T19:57:00.002-05:00

I hate using the bathroom on the second floor at Lincoln Library. Every time I go in there, the toilets are funky (still not as filthy as Barnes and Nobles' bathrooms at Wabash and Veterans), and there's usually a disoriented person walking around like a zombie from a George C. Romero flick. One afternoon I went in there to find a guy half naked, shaving his stomach with a disposable razor. I stood at the urinal, a little nervous about this swaying, bearded man directly behind me who was mumbling something about beehives and wielding a disposable razor. I mean, at any time he could have sprung on me and nicked me about my neck and face!

That night I came home, and promptly had a dream about being shanked in the back while urinating at Lincoln Library. Fun.

I try to avoid using the bathroom unless I really don't have a choice. The bathroom on the first floor is much nicer and cleaner, and I've never had any strange encounters in there, but I'm also incredibly lazy about switching floors just to pee. Today, I thought, "It's been awhile since I've used this one. I'll just duck in. I don't have time to go downstairs right now."

I walked in, and other than the guy apparently passing a stone on the commode, everything seemed fine. Until, I stepped up to the urinal and saw DUM DUM DUM . . . a used condom floating next to the urinal cake.

What choice did I have? I had to go. So, I did my business, careful to direct the stream away from the disposed condom so as to avoid splashing any unwanted wiener goo* onto my pants. I mean, it's one thing to get splashback from "clean" urinal water. It's an entirely different thing to splashback wiener goo from someone else's wiener.

*wiener goo: yeah, I think that's a scientific term

Rabies Shot

2009-06-19T11:39:00.004-05:00

It's Salman Rushdie's
birthday
today.

And the U.S. Open
is on the
air.

Iran's lips are still
being zipped.

And there are
tent cities
in America.

And the weather
here,
here in Illinois,
is
hot and humid,
thick,
"sultry" as an
old friend would say.

I am tired,
I am tired,
and unwired,
racing with my pedal
to the
floor,
(to the floor)
and my
transmission
in neutral.

But I can't
help feeling
good that
I
mailed
the last
payment
for my
rabies shot
today.

Belly Rub

2009-06-18T15:40:00.003-05:00

Cleaning dog poop
off the floor is a rarity these days.

She knows better,
an exercise in anxiety more
than a need,
but it was the thunder and the rain,
those mystery entities of dark
night sky that had her barking out the
window at 5 AM.

I knew
she was having a hard morning
by the way she was curled up on my slippers
this morning instead of on her fluffy blue bed,
like usual
and by the way she clung to me,
as I
made breakfast,
watching me with her big, sad eyes,
and that little bit of tremble around
her ears.

Finding her mess,
I lowered my voice,
deep,
she came to me,
and I asked her,
"Did you do this?"
and she slinked away
like a scolded child,
watched me working
with plastic bag and
spray cleaner.

Disposing of the mess,
I called her to me,
and we made friends
with a "gimme five" and a
"shake"
and a little bit of a
belly rub.

Lincoln Library

2009-06-17T13:39:00.002-05:00

Working from home is great, but it's so nice to have a reason to get out one day a week and do something different. Today is a beautiful day, and I can't wait to get out and ride my bike to the library.

I have a standing appointment every Wednesday afternoon at Lincoln Library. I tutor after work on those days, and I find myself really looking forward to my time in the library. The guy I tutor is always a lot of fun to be around. He has a great, optimistic attitude, and he's curious about everything. One week we're reading about the solar system and the next week we're reading about the history of Afghanistan. He is really interested in everything, which makes my job easy. He picks something he wants to read, and we start working on it.

I love being in the library. Maybe it's because I grew up without a library, but I just love having all those rows and rows of books all around. I usually arrive a few minutes early so I can return books, browse the stacks, look at movies, or any of the other super-awesome things there are to do in the library. This week I'm returning Bukowski's Come on In, Gregory Corso's Mindfield, and a great book of historical poetry by George Keithley called Song in a Strange Land. I've really enjoyed all three, and I may renew the Keithley book. I loved his The Donner Party.

Exploring Cahokia Mounds

2009-06-16T14:48:00.007-05:00

This past Saturday, Aubrey and I made the drive to Collinsville, Illinois to explore Cahokia Mounds. For those of you who don't know, Cahokia Mounds is the site of a once-thriving Native American city. From 650 to 1400 CE, Cahokia Mounds boasted a population at its peak of between 20,000 and 40,000 people. The city was massive and spread out over an area rivaling that of modern day metropolitan St. Louis. Not only that, but there is archaeological evidence that the Mississipians who populated the site used city planning techniques to lay out the city and to deal with "urban" problems like overcrowding, disease, and waste removal.

An artist's depiction of the Cahokia Mounds site circa 1000 CE

Additionally, the major metropolitan site located near modern day Collinsville, was a first-tier site. There were other second and third-tier sites associated to this city center, which equate to modern suburbs. These second and third-tier sites were important for trade, crop production, and communication. At one time the entire Mississipian culture spread from the Mississippi River east to the Atlantic Ocean and as far South as the Gulf of Mexico.

I remember going to Cahokia Mounds as a kid, but I really didn't appreciate it back then. I think my family squeezed a walk to the top of Monk's Mound in between breakfast at the Waffle House in Collinsville and an afternoon at the racetrack down the road. I remember walking to the top of the mound, and not really knowing what it was, just thinking it was a hill.

This time around, I went in with a deeper appreciation of the cultural and historical significance of the site. So often, we read or see television programs about the great cultures of the ancient world. We are hammered ad nauseum with shows and stories about Egyptians, Aztecs, Mayans, ancient Indians, and ancient Chinese, but rarely do we see any coverage of the mound-building people of what is today the United States.

Maybe the earthen structures at Cahokia Mounds are not as magnificent as the limestone blocks used to build the Great Pyramid of Khufu, or of the dry stone construction used at Macchu Picchu, but the Mississippians showed true problem-solving and ingenuity in their ability to utilize the resources of the Mississippi River valley to build epic structures. The Mississippians made due with what they had, which was a variety of soil types, including clay. They were craftspeople, who leveled the surfaces of their mounds with absolute precision. They even leveled acres and acres of flat land so they would have flat plazas upon which to trade, celebrate, worship, and play games.

The people of "Cahokia," also practiced astronomy, as evidenced by the ring of wooden posts, today called Woodhenge. Woodhenge was used to mark solstices, equinoxes, and to monitor other astronomical events.

view from the top of Monk's Mound, see St. Louis in the background

There is so much evidence in Cahokia Mounds of a civilized and flourishing community. In fact, the first urban center in "modern" North America to reach the population of Cahokia Mounds at its height was Philadelphia when Philadelphia crossed the 40,000 mark around 1800. Think about that for a minute.

The only problem we found in Cahokia Mounds is that it appears there's very little money going to the site, which is a problem I don't see being solved anytime soon. The "state of the art" interpretation center feels often outdated, and occasionally just old. Despite the fact that Cahokia Mounds is only one of 20 UNESCO World Heritage Sites in the United States, it doesn't seem to have much of a budget at all. Entry is a voluntary donation of $4 per person or $10 per family, which we gladly paid.

Essentially, the entire historical site is a do-it-yourself affair. This wasn't a big deal to us. We bought one of the $1 tour guide books and walked the trails by ourselves. It was a beautiful day, and Aubrey took a ton of pictures. In order to get from site to site, you are advised to get in your car and drive. This seemed silly to us. We enjoy walking, and it was a nice day. Walking from the interpretive center and the Twin Mounds self-guided tour to Monk's Mound wasn't a big deal. But walking a mile on the shoulder of the highway to reach Woodhenge was less than ideal. There were not many sidewalks or walking trails that were convenient to all locations. Additionally, there only seemed to be a small number of staff people at the interpretive center, and none on our around the rest of the site to answer questions or to give information. The site does offer twice-daily one-hour guided tours, but I think these tours are strictly around the twin mounds area and not the entire site.

I don't mean to complain. We did have a great day, and I think the folks working at the site are doing the best they possibly can with the resources available to them. I'd just love to see the situation improve for them and for the viewing public.

I'd highly recommend Cahokia Mounds for anyone looking for something to do in the St. Louis area. Have a picnic, walk around the site, learn some sweet ancient history.

I leave you with a short video I found at Veoh. It's a pretty cool overview of the area.

Watch Stonehenge - Southern Illinois style in News | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Evaporation

2009-06-16T10:55:00.004-05:00

In some ways,
in lots of ways,
we spend our whole lives
in airplanes
swirling over
our memories,
looking down,
puzzling over those myriad
experiences we
unrolled with careful precision
or
threw to the world willy-nilly,
wondering why or how,
now,
we were
ever able to pull ourselves through?

We fly alone,
frowning at
"Oh my, I can't believe I used to . . ."
or
"Did I really look like that?!"
or
crying
at the time she broke
your heart
and despite
all your inner strength
and all your intelligent
ramblings on pride
and the transmigration of
soul
all you could feel
was the sadness
that seemed to materialize
from every molecule of your being
and all you could do was
lay down
on the steps
like a big dead bear
and weep
real
wet
tears.

Or
laughing at the
time you,
trying to look so cool
for them,
tripped
sprawling out,
falling on the floor
as you walked into the
grocery store
bumping your chin
hard in front of all those people
who couldn't help laughing.

Or
embracing the time you
chased
fireflies
alone in
the yard,
while everyone
sat around the
picnic table,
smoking
and throwing scuttlebutt.

Or
trying to
forget
the quiet days
you sat alone,
in that little room,
feeling pressed
to do more
or at least something
else
but powerless
to do anything
at all.

Circling overhead
like a fragile
little bird,
you reflect,
puzzling over
this landscape
you've created and molded,
and transformed,
like a god,
absorbing it,
before its all
over.

As the plane,
circling and circling
ever
tighter,
descends,
prepares to
bounce softly
to a landing
or throw itself
sharply landward,
you reflect.

You reflect.

The flight will soon end,
the journey will soon cease,
and there will be no one left
to remember all
these beautiful memories;
these beautiful memories
will evaporate into exinction.

It's then you realize . . .

A Silent Moment on a Monday Afternoon Stirs Thoughts of Childhood

2009-06-15T15:23:00.005-05:00

Remember that old garage?
The one we had when we lived
in the blue trailer across from
the school
with its dirt floor and unfinished walls?

I remember spending long days
and even longer nights in there,
Dad,
with you and the guys,
swapping out transmissions,
or putting on your newly
chromed
headers,
or cherrypicking
whole motors,
the whole time BTO tapes
playing over and over again
or sometimes Lynyrd Skynyrd
or Tom Petty,
and learning things
that school and friends and
television
had not yet taught me.

I'd sit in the corner
flipping through your old
black and white Conan
comic books while you and
the guys sweated and tinkered
over the nuts and bolts
of a '67 'Cuda or a '65 GTO,
hoping to have them ready
for the next big cruise
or car show.

Remember the time that
stray dog,
a little brown, pesky
thing
came into the garage
while you
were on your back,
torso under the car,
tweaking the shifting
linkage
and
started humping your
leg,
and you did your best to
shake him off, but
he just kept coming back
for more,
and you finally yelled,
"Goddamn dog!"
and climbed out
from under the car,
to run him off,
and then we both started laughing?

Or what about the time you
got so mad that the Barracuda
wouldn't start
that you threw a ball-peen
hammer through the windshield
of that old dirty Aries
that you loved to drive around
so much,
that copper-colored
zombie of a car,
with the sagging
ceiling liner, and the ripped
seats with the foam squeezing through
and the rust holes along
the fenders;
that car that embarrassed the
hell out of me when I rode
to town with you and
felt like everyone was
staring at us?

Living Exponentially

2009-06-12T11:28:00.002-05:00

I was just reading about Terence McKenna's Time Wave Zero theory last week. While it's hard to explain (a good intro video is here), McKenna developed a mathematical formula that theoretically calculates the ebb and flow of "novelty" in the universe. Using the mysterious King Wen sequence of the ancient I Ching as a starting point, McKenna derived his mathematical formula around the concept that there is teleological (a purpose-driven) attractor at the end of time and that as time draws nearer and nearer to this end, the interconnectedness of places/beings/events become more and more interrelated.

McKenna himself states that the theory is so bizarre that it's difficult to believe. And it is bizarre. For one, it's hard to get your mind around novelty theory. The Time Wave Zero graph, as plotted by McKenna and his computer software designed specifically for computing TWZ, the graph is fractal in nature. Additionally, it grinds against so many of the modern theories of time and the physics of our universe. We've learned that time and the universe will continue expanding at least until some distant point in the future when it won't matter to us anyway.

I'm skeptical, mostly because the end of the time wave zero sequence coincides with the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012, the notorious "doomsday" date we've all heard so much about. This alone makes me skeptical. In some ways it's interesting, and I think McKenna argued that this was evidence that the ancient Mayans, the ancient Chinese, and all the other cultures that predicted a 2012 end of time had a knowledge of the universe that we currently lack. For me, it seems a bit "opportunistic" that the end of Time Wave Zero theory lands on 2012, with what appears to me a bit of tweaking by McKenna.

But . . . I'm intrigued. As an artifact of Time Wave Zero, it is proposed that there are historical resonances that are repeated as time spirals closer and tighter to the end. Imagine time as a spiral. Long ago, the spiral was big and loose. It took a long time to go around the circle once. So, one turn around the outside of the spiral takes X number of years. The next time around the spiral, the circle required to reach the beginning point is smaller, and the historical events coincide with events from the first time around, everything takes less time. It's more condensed. According to McKenna, 1942 kicked off a 67 year period in which the previous 4,000 years or so are being lived out in a very concentrated manner. And next we will embark on a time period up until 2012, that the whole spiral of history will be condensed again until at the end all novel events of all history will be played out simultaneously in absolute chaos. Which, according to theory, will occur on or around my birthday in 2012. (That's right, my birthday is December 21)

Huh? It's so hard to believe. Plus, McKenna's reputation is a little questionable. I like listening to the guy talk. He's obviously brilliant, and he strikes me as an excellent thinker. But, he was known to explore the mind-opening properties of hallucinogenics from around the world, especially South American herbal varieties. Much of his early thought on Time Wave Zero, came while under the influence of psychotropic drugs. For me, that makes his claims unreliable. But there's something about the frenetic forward movement of our global population that makes Time Wave zero ring true.

But it's still fascinating. I can't let it go.

I saw this video this morning on YouTube, discussing the "exponential times" in which we currently live. It seems that everything around us is advancing exponentially. Does this support McKenna's theory of Time Wave Zero? I don't know. The skeptic in me says, "No." I think we just live in extraordinary times. Times in which technology and information are being created and advanced at rates never seen before in human history.

These theories are a lot of fun to ponder, but I don't think we'll have any way to know until it's over. And then it won't matter. So enjoy today, I guess.

Heads I Win, Tails You Ooze!

2009-06-11T14:58:00.003-05:00

Hey Phil Spector, that Crypt Keeper look is so early 1990s, dude.

Seriously, until Phil Spector's mug shot hit the web today, I thought that horrible shag hair of his was real. The sad thing is, the wig is almost as bad in the opposite direction as his non-wig look. Jesus!

Compare these two, and tell me Phil Spector isn't stealing the Crypt Keeper's look.

Gut Voice

2009-06-11T14:35:00.002-05:00

I am an advocate of following your gut.

As I grow older I'm realizing that when I manage to silence the noise and static in my life and really listen to that voice deep inside my gut, that I make good choices. I make choices that I can live with. That allow me to flourish.

I'm not talking about a voice of reason in the head. That voice has often been wrong. It's something deeper, and I don't know how to describe it. It's almost like a voice that comes from not thinking. Of just knowing. Of just knowing what's right for me and for my happiness.

Rationalization and bringing evidence into the argument, or making the argument head-based, often only serves to muddy the waters. To shade my feelings one color or another. To tug me in one direction or another. It is when I can silence my mind that I find some of the best answers. Some of the most true answers.

Date Night

2009-06-10T14:08:00.003-05:00

Last night, Aubrey and I went on one of our weekly dates. We ate dinner at Ross Isaac. A simple, light dinner of sushi, beet salad, shrimp ceviche, and flash-fried calamari. I settled into our corner table with an old-fashioned, and we spent the evening laughing and talking, speculating on the mysteries of life. It was a great night for a date. The restaurant was not crowded. It was quiet, and it offered us a really nice time to sit together out of the house, to relax, and to talk. Great, great time, that left us both feeling connected and happy.

As we were leaving the restaurant, making our way through the parking lot, we crashed into each other for an impromptu (and exciting) kiss. While we were sharing our tender moment, a car sped past us on MacArthur, and a young man, hanging from the rear driver's side window shouted, "Get a room, you fuckheads!"

We both stepped back stunned and laughing at the whole situation. It was really the perfect way to end our wonderful dinner.

A Lazy Video Gamer with Big Baseball Dreams

2009-06-05T10:56:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I needed a break from the labors of my day. I made my way downstairs and played a game of baseball from the Wii sports package. This game kind of sucks. I don't like they way hits are scored, and I don't like that I have to pitch. Actually, when it comes to Wii Sports, I prefer the training modes of home run derby or batting practice over the actual game.

So, being the baseball nerd that I am, I started thinking. What would be a really great baseball game for me? I've tried playing some of the other actual baseball games for the Wii, and in my opinion, they're just way too complicated. I'm in my thirties now, and I'd much rather sit down with a cold beer and watch Ryan Theriot get thrown out at second than to mash a bunch of buttons only to force him into the same situation in a video game.

I don't have time for complicated video games. I want ease and simplicity. I want to pick up my Wiimote and swing a bat. Which is why I enjoy the Home Run Derby feature of The Bigs. This feature is a blast, and when we've had that game in our possession, Aubrey and I both play it like crazy, knocking balls out of the yard at a furious pace. But in order to get the Home Run Derby part of the game, which is about $9.00 worth of game, you have to plunk down full sticker price for the whole game and its annoying soundtrack.

I loved the baseball games for Nintendo from back when I was a kid. RBI Baseball, Baseball Stars, Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball, or Baseball Simulator 1.000. Those games were simple, and they were FUN. Baseball games have gotten a lot less fun over the years. As graphics have improved and physics have become much more life-like, the gameplay has become overwrought with complexity. Going back as far as the N64, when I play a baseball game I quickly become frustrated with all of the complicated finger movements required to bat, pitch, run, or throw. Baseball is such a slow-paced and fun game to watch. Playing it should not be so frenzied.

Basically, all I want do at this point in my video game playing career is use the really cool Wiimote to swing for the fences. I don't want to pitch. I don't want to field. I don't want to desperately try to figure out how to run the bases. I just want to hit.

So, my noodle got going. I remembered how much I loved watching Home Run Derby, the old 1959 television show that featured the greatest hitters in baseball squaring off in home run hitting contests. ESPN started replaying the series in 1988, when I was just 11 years old, and I LOVED that show! I watched it every chance I got. It was like magic to me to get to see guys like Hank Aaron, Ernie Banks, Mickey Mantle, and Willie Mays not only hit home runs, but also talk about hitting home runs. It was amazing.

So, I started thinking. I'd love to see a great Home Run Derby video game modeled after that old television show. It could have two modes. It could have a classic mode, which would be played in black and white, and would feature the greatest home run hitters of yesterday. It could even feature cheesy play-by-play audio from the show's announcer, Mark Scott, and the players, lifted from the original series. It would be great if you had the option to choose from some of the great ballparks of the era, but I would settle for Los Angeles' Wrigley Field. Then, there could be a modern era mode, which would feature the great hitters of today. It would be in full color, and would feature play-by-play by a modern baseball announcer. As long as it didn't feature Joe Morgan or Jon Miller, I'd be pretty cool, I think. And you'd have options for your modern ballpark of choice.

The Drunkard's Progress

2009-06-03T09:52:00.005-05:00

Today while browsing our clipart vendor, I came across this Prohibition-era poster decrying the consumption of alcohol. This sort of thing always cracks me up. In the same way that Reefer Madness cracks me up. No one gets high on "grass" and acts like a lunatic as this film would have you believe. In reality, those kids would've sat around vegging on pre-war snack foods like pork rinds and soda pop, not cruising around town like speed freaks.

Or the "This is your brain on drugs" campaign of the 80s. I mean, I love fried eggs, and that commercial always made me want a fried egg. It didn't scare me away from drugs. It made me hungry. Even now, watching it on youtube, I'm feeling really tempted to go down and fire up the stove.

These sort of scare tactics rarely ever work in any meaningful way. Real life tends to be far more persuasive than the images that are pounded at us on television or billboards.

Notice the inclusion of a weeping wife and child for that "extra something." But I also notice something more: the smoking factory in the background. So, what are we to deduce? That this man chose the quick route by drinking, when he could have toiled away fruitlessly in an unsafe factory under horrible working conditions and long back-breaking hours? That doesn't seem better, honestly.

In case you can't read the notes, they are:

Step 1: A glass with a friend.
Step 2: A glass to keep the cold out.
Step 3: A glass too much.
Step 4: Drunk and riotous.
Step 5: The summit attained. Jolly companions. A confirmed drunkard.
Step 6: Poverty and disease.
Step 7: Forsaken by friends.
Step 8: Desperation and crime.
Step 9: Death by suicide.

That's right folks, take a drink and someday you'll shoot yourself in the head with a dueling pistol. What I find additionally interesting is that we all know that recovery takes 12 steps, but we find out here that the descent only takes 9. That doesn't seem quite fair.

Overheard at Mekong Cafe

2009-05-28T09:12:00.003-05:00

Last night while I was waiting for my carry out order, I observed a family dining in at Mekong. It looked like Grandma and Grandpa, their son, his wife, and their three kids, a little baby and two ornery elementary schoolers. The family had just finished their meal and were preparing to order dessert. I heard two funny things come out of the Grandma's mouth.

First, one of the ornery elementary schoolers called Grandma a mean name that I couldn't hear. The Grandma retorted, "Well, then I guess I ain't gonna order you any ice cream for dessert. Not with you sayin' mean things like that. How would you like that, sassybutt?"

I thought, "How on Earth can you punish a kid for calling you a mean name by calling him a mean name in return?" I'm no Dr. Spock. Hell, I'm not even a Dr. Phil, but I think that probably doesn't really get you the end result you're hoping for.

Then, when the waitress approached, the Grandma, who was apparently the spokesperson of the family, said, "These two (ornery elementary schoolers) will each have a dip of ice cream. They love ice cream. This one [points to one of the boys] eats ice cream like it's coming out of his ears."

Out of his ears? He eats ice cream like it's coming out of his ears? The implications of that statement are too much. Truly, I don't know what to say.

Mining the Language for Nuggets of Gold

2009-05-22T16:18:00.004-05:00

Today I overheard a man say, "That really gets my dandruff up!"

Not, mind you, the widely accepted idiom, "That really gets my dander up!" No, this man clearly said that something, whatever it was that irritated him, had gotten his dandruff up. I almost burst out laughing. The mental picture of that is great.

I love hearing people say the wrong things. I imagine it feels much like how finding a nugget of gold in a dank cave must've felt to the old gold prospectors. It's like my word nerd version of finding an Easter egg in the world of spoken language. To me, it's one of those little things that makes life worth living.

An Awkward Few Minutes in the Dark Recesses of a Local Music Store

2009-05-21T16:10:00.003-05:00

I started playing the mandolin in 2005. Well, I bought a mandolin in 2005 and started making sounds on it, some of which have started to sound a little bit like music. At the time, I didn't have a lot of money to spend, and I didn't really want to invest in a high-end mandolin until I knew it was something I liked and something I'd be able to spend time on. I spent several hours online, reading quality comparisons of brands and models. Then I toured the Springfield music store scene, finally deciding to buy a mandolin from one of Springfield's oldest and most unique music stores . . . the music store in a house.

At the time I thought, "Hey, I'll support local commerce. I'll buy local, help support the local economy." So, I spent a little time in the dark recesses of said music store in a house, looking over new and used mandolins. I wasn't impressed with their selection overall, but they did have a little red Washburn that I could imagine slung over my shoulder.

At any rate, I spent a little time with the owner of said music store in a house, and I couldn't help but notice that he was an odd, eccentric sort of fellow. I noticed at the time that it seemed like it took forever to get any kind of service in the store. Mostly because the owner didn't seem to trust any of his employees to do, well, anything. They weren't allowed to discuss the instruments with me. They weren't allowed to get picks out of the case at the register. They weren't allowed to write the ticket. They weren't allowed to ring the sale. They weren't even allowed to run simple errands. The owner did it all. There were, in fact, employees in said store, but I really don't know why. This was clearly a one-man show.

All weirdness aside, I closed the sale, refused the hard sell on mandolin lessons, and took my mandolin home. I played with it for a few months, learning everything with the help of my good friend the Internet. Started learning scales and chords. Started playing a few simple tunes. But then I heard about this really cool thing . . . finger picking, and I convinced myself that I needed to be a finger picker. So, I headed back to the music store in a house to get some metal finger picks so I could start finger picking like I'd seen in all the cool Youtube videos.

My next experience was kind of like if Edgar Allan Poe had written a screenplay for film director Roger Corman about an eccentric music store owner who runs a music store out of a couple of bleak old houses in a small city in the Midwest.

I walked into the store, knowing exactly what I needed. I walked to the glass case in front of the cash register where I was greeted by a seemingly kind and capable (albeit mousy) young woman. I pointed to the finger picks in the case and told her I needed two finger picks and a thumb pick. She told me I'd have to wait for the owner.

"Okay," I said. I'm a patient man . . . at times. Well, I can be patient. My wife would likely disagree, though, so let's just say it's something I'm working on.

"He'll be back in a minute," she said.

Shortly after this, a kid about 12-13 years old strolled in with a guitar case ready for his lesson. He was greeted by a young male employee of the store. This employee was probably 17-18 years old max. The young employee told the kid to head upstairs and that they'd start their guitar lesson in a few minutes.

Then, the owner appeared from behind a curtain at the rear of the store. He looked furious. He asked the young employee to come with him. They stepped behind the curtain, and the owner began to unleash a verbal tirade that would make Lewis Black quake with fear. From what I could gather, he was angry that the kid hadn't followed his guitar student upstairs and started the lesson immediately, which didn't make any sense to me. Then he was angry that he didn't feel the young employee gave him enough respect.

I don't remember the words verbatim, but it was a lot of swearing, a lot of foot stomping, and a lot of "You better" do this and "You better" do that along with some directives to respect his authority.

The young woman at the cash register and I shared a very awkward few minutes together as the owner proceeded to insult this young man and threaten his job over what I could only tell were very minor issues. What do two people within earshot of this kind of assault say to each other? At one point the young lady turned to me, and she said, "Do you know anyplace in town that's hiring?"

I smiled and told her I did not. The whole situation was ridiculous and hilarious, but I also felt bad for these young kids trying to make a buck in the summer. The whole environment was dark and dreary and wound so tight with stress you could've popped it with a needle. I knew that the first time I'd set foot in the store.

After finishing his verbal abuse, the owner emerged from the curtain, sweating and red-faced, to greet me with a kind smile. It was so odd to reconcile this glad-handed businessman with the bullying jerk I'd just heard behind the curtain. I couldn't help thinking of the Looney Tunes version of Jekyll and Hyde, of the owner going behind the curtain and turning into a green, menacing, verbally abusive monster. Then reemerging a few minutes later as an eccentric and straight-faced music store owner.

He unlocked the case, handed me my finger picks, and wrote the ticket slowly by hand. Meanwhile the young lady at the register sat and watched. I paid with cash, got my change, and headed for the door.

But not before the owner tried to hard sell me on lessons one last time.

I haven't been back since. And I won't go back either. I did call there once when I was interested in buying an electric mandolin. He told me that electric mandolins don't exist, like I was making the whole thing up.

"But the internet tells me they do," I said.

He rebutted, "Well it's wrong. I'd know if such a thing existed, and it doesn't."

Electric mandolins do exist. I bought one from another music store here in town shortly after our conversation. It's in my closet right now. Along with a leprechaun and the Holy Grail.

Homemade Dog Food

2009-05-18T21:18:00.004-05:00

One of our dogs, Lucy, has a very sensitive stomach, so basically we have to find the most expensive food available and feed it to her by the pound. She's a big dog, and she eats about two pounds of food each day. We currently use Freshpet Select, which we can usually find at Schnuck's on Chatham Road. They have a refrigerated case in the dog food aisle. I usually stop by a few times a week and grab a couple of the six pound logs of food.

Recently, Schnuck's has been improperly managing their supply. We just went through a three-week period where we could get no food at all. Zero. And a dog that's used to eating two pounds of food a day doesn't do well when you trim that back to zero pounds a day. So, I had to resort back to making our own food.

Making our own food wasn't a huge deal since I had made dog food for about six months prior to Freshpet Select being available locally. Having a pretty good basic recipe down, I just had to pull out the old dog food kettle, gather my ingredients, and get to work.

The basic homemade dog food recipe I use is simple. It's five pounds of hamburger, two pounds of beef liver, one to two pounds of mixed vegetables, and roughly a pound of rice. I try to make a mixture that's about 70-80 percent protein and the rest rice and vegetables. I also cook with a little added water and a little olive oil to keep the meat from sticking to the pan. I cook the meat and the liver together until it's brown. Then I add the vegetables and let the whole mess simmer for 15-20 minutes. Then, I add the cooked rice, and it's done. Here's a picture of the finished product.

Yum.

Schnuck's called over the weekend to say that they'd finally received a new shipment of food. By the time I got there on Saturday night, however, they only had two of the six pound logs left. They have a good number of the three pound logs, but I have my concerns that they'll sell out again, and I'll be back to stirring a pot of hot beef.

My Poem About Sophie Blanchard

2009-05-18T20:36:00.004-05:00

A couple years ago, I wrote a poem about a really interesting woman named Sophie Blanchard. Sophie Blanchard was the first female professional balloonist, and the first woman to be killed in an aviation accident. Ms. Blanchard was an odd sort. She was married to a professional balloonist and took up the craft after her husband died after having a heart attack in his balloon and falling to his death.

Ms. Blanchard reportedly scared very easily. She was described as "timid and bird-like." Once she found ballooning, she found her niche. She felt more comfortable in the air than on the ground. The air seemed a quiet retreat from the far noisier and chaotic ground. In the air, she was a transformed person, a fearless person.

During her career, Ms. Blanchard became a celebrity throughout Europe. She even became a favorite entertainer of Napoleon. Her ballooning events were extremely popular in Europe. Unfortunately, it was her zest for showmanship that caused her downfall. During an ill-fated performance in France, her balloon caught fire, and she crash landed in the Tivoli Gardens. She did not survive the crash.

Inspired, I wrote a poem about Sophie Blanchard. I learned last summer that the poem is going to be published in an upcoming book about famous women adventurers from history. The book is due out this fall. As more details become available, I'll pass them along.

It's a little thing, but interesting. In fact, at the time I received news it was really a nice pick-me-up. It came at a time when I was struggling with my writing, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my book. I LOVE writing historical poetry based on interesting stories or unique facts. This kind of confirmed for me that that works.

Here's the poem:

It's Electric Times Sophie Blanchard!

Bengal Fire!
It was the Bengal fire.
And the winds fast and furious.

Our little feminine Icarus, who sought to fly
too high, to ignite the sky,
over gardens Tivoli on that hot Paris
night.

Were you as scared as they said you were?
Afraid of the
warnings that day, that flame and fire, the cross
of ancient and modern, or sacred and baleful,
would overwhelm you and your basket?
The winds, they blew you off course, but
it was no matter for your ballooning expertise,
my love.
You who feared cannon-shot, who feared the
click-clack, click-clack of horse-hoofs or the
rolling thunder of a passenger carriage,
you my sweet tremble, soft and nervous
like a bird,
you broke free, ascending into the night sky
like a bubble drifting ever higher into ethereal
darkness.
But you did not notice the trees had dislodged
your fireworks, and it was to be your end.

The last image
I have of you poor sweet Sophie
is seeing you sweep over head
and the hand-wringing face of terror as your
engulfed balloon went driving headlong
downward into
the heart of the Rue de Provence.
And the crowd cheered and whooped at the
exciting show you had promised them.
Is it true that your arteries burst in your hands,
sweet Sophie, from your desperate final clutchings
of your burning basket?

Then, with the fortune of those talented in their
calling, you managed to steer your basket
onto a rooftop, and for a moment your heart soared that you
just might make it, but the pitch was too much,
and you were cast headlong over the roof
and into the proud street below.

I was told they found your body broken, toothless
along the Rue de Provence, but I care not to think
of you that way, sweet Sophie. I will remember the
delicate bird perched high in the blue skies
singing her soft songs to the wind.

It's electric times Sophie Blanchard!
Sophie.
Sophie. Sophie.
Blanchard.

A Poem Called Fuddle

2009-05-06T14:28:00.003-05:00

Here's a poem I've been kicking around in my head since this thing happened to me yesterday while I was on a walk with the dogs. That's how poems come to me. They bang around in my head. If I'm in my right mind, eventually the fingers kick in, and start forming the thing on paper.

I've realized for a long time that I think in poetry. It's weird. I think in words. I think in flashes of words, phrases . . . sometimes just syllables. I rarely think in sentences unless I'm sitting down and forming sentences, like I'm doing right now. When my mind is idling, it's thinking in poetry.

Aubrey and I have talked a bunch about how our minds work. She thinks in images. She dreams in images. She is a very visual person. Me . . . I think I might get blurs of images, twists of pictures in my mind . . . but nothing that I can really sit and think about. Everything goes about as quickly as it comes. Except words. Words tend to stick to the walls. Kind of like those gooey spiders I played with as a kid. Throw it against the wall, and it sticks, starts to creep down the wall. Words are like that. They'll stick around for awhile before they creep down the wall of my mind. If I play with them too much or for too long, they dry up and don't stick any more. It's a dilemma!

Problem is, I stopped writing them. For years I jotted little poems down all over the place. Then, for a variety of reasons I just stopped. The processes still grind away in my head. I've just taken the fingers out of the equation. Lately, though, I've really been itching to write more poetry.

And I think I just figured out why. It's Twitter. I know it might sound weird, and I might be giving this little microblogging tool too much credit, but to me, Twitter has stimulated the part of my brain that connects the words with the fingers. Working in Twitter has given me a similar feeling I get when I'm getting ready to sprout a poem. It's a lot like the way I see poetry in my head. Little flashes. Little bursts. Writing updates on Twitter has helped draw my fingers back to the processes in the head. It's got me thinking about economy of words, shaping of phrase, construction of thoughts. And I all of a sudden feel like writing.

So, here's the poem I just wrote.

Fuddle

screeeeeee . . .
ancient little white-haired lady
at the wheel of an
old brown slow rolling Buick Le Baron,
slow rolling,
slowly,
screeeeeee . . .
so slow,
we're talkin' geological processes slow,
from coal to diamond-tipped drill bits slow,
from baby face to ZZ Top beard slow,
screeeeeee . . .
I see your eyes as you, trembling with age,
feel the steering wheel tighten,
wail against your withered palms,
screeeeeee . . .
you look resigned,
a fuddle fills your eyes,
you don't seem to realize,
but my dogs sure do,
cocking their heads, lifting their ears
at the distinct
screeeeeee . . .
sidewalls rolling slowly around
the rim of the steep concrete curb
screeeeeee . . .
and then there's the tinny metal scrape,
your rim etching its name,
leaving its scent behind for other wayfaring
rims turning south
as I wince, jaw dropped,
mouth open,
tongue drying out in
the kick of morning breeze,
thinking "How much longer
can this take?"
screeeeeee . . .

And then, I take a flash to blink my eyes,
and with a
plunk . . .
you descend back to Earth,
all fours,
and roll away down the street
ancient little white-haired lady

Here's How I Roll When It Comes to Lawn Maintenance

2009-05-04T16:00:00.003-05:00

When the grass needs trimmed at my house, I use a manual reel mower (not this model; I have a Sears model). For the trimming, I have a handy little electric string trimmer and 50' extension cord.

Great News About Catfish

2009-05-04T13:36:00.003-05:00

I'm so tired of catfish taking a bad rap. I happen to love catfish, and I'm not going to hide that fact. I grew up eating it, and I've always enjoyed it. Even as my palate has grown more refined, I've been able to keep catfish as a food I love when I get the chance to eat it. I grew up on fried catfish, but more recently Aubrey and I love a blackened catfish recipe that we can make on the grill.

I read this article today on Whole Foods' website, and it dispels some of the myths that people use to condemn this delicious fish.

Myth #1: Catfish tastes “muddy.”
The truth: If it does, it’s not good catfish.
Because of the way we raise and harvest our fish, you’ll never get that muddy flavor, which is caused by algae blooms in the water.

I've had muddy tasting catfish. Sure. I've also had absolutely terrible tuna, and that doesn't mean I'm automatically writing off seared ahi next time I see it on the menu. I've had absolutely terrible cuts of beef before, but I'm not swearing off filet anytime soon. Getting good fish is a pretty common sense kind of thing.

Myth #2: Catfish is a bottom feeder.
The truth: Farm-raised catfish eat off the top of the water.
In the wild, catfish are opportunistic feeders and they will eat anywhere in the water column. To maximize the feed costs of farm-raised catfish, we make feed that floats so we can make sure every bit is eaten and doesn’t go to waste.

This whole "bottom feeder" thing has never really bothered me that much. Can't say why, it just hasn't. I've known that wild catfish are opportunistic feeders and that they eat off the bottom when there are no other options available. In food-rich waters, it's not really a big deal. I've had some great wild catfish. The farm-raised catfish, especially in ecologically progressive farms like Carolina Classics, are utilizing techniques to keep their catfish healthy and tasty.

Myth #3: Catfish is only good fried.
The truth: Excellent fried but delicious baked, blackened or sautéed as well.

A dumb myth. Of course catfish is not ONLY good fried. That's like saying chicken is only good fried, or beef is only good ground up and grilled as hamburgers. Catfish is a flavorful protein that can be cooked using a variety of methods.

I'm glad to see some of the catfish myths set aside, but I'm also glad to see Whole Foods giving catfish the treatment it deserves. I can't wait until we're back in Richmond, where we'll have a Whole Foods at our disposal. I love that place.

Thinking Out Loud

2009-05-04T08:42:00.003-05:00

Having worked as a test writer for a number of years, I've grown rather accustomed to writing short passages for kids of all ages. In my line of work, I write passages for second graders one week and then turn around and write passages for eleventh graders the following week. And then, to make matters worse, there are all sorts of other pitfalls to avoid: passages can be no longer than a certain number of words, you have to write certain elements into the narratives in order to write questions about them later, you have to avoid certain subject matter, you have to write about certain other subject matter, etc.

Occasionally, as I'm working through passage development, I develop stories that I just can't possibly develop and bring home in 400 words. So, I kind of set those aside in hopes that someday maybe I can make them work. Last year I played around with a couple of those ideas and formed a couple of full-length children's books. We're talking picture books for beginning readers.

The first one is titled, Marvin McKinley and his Magical Mandolin, and tells the story of a man who loves to play beautiful, enchanting music from the attic window of his tall old house on a hill, overlooking a serene little village. Big trouble comes up during the course of the story that changes the entire community.

The other is titled, The Brick Pile, and it tells the story of a neighborhood of bugs and slugs and spiders who live together in a brick pile behind a garage and who face a giant challenge together.

I worked those two books out in a flurry last year (or was it the year before?) and then set them aside, so I would not get distracted from my Embarrassment of Riches work. I did send Marvin to a couple small publishers, faced a couple small rejections (no big deal), but I never really kept at it. Now that I've set Embarrassment aside, I'm starting to feel more and more like I need something creative to work on. I have more ideas for children's books.

And the thing is . . . I love writing stuff for kids. I think that's why I love writing tests so much. It's always been my vision that kids shouldn't have to read the same old boring crud in their tests. I think we can all agree that when we HAVE to read something, we do a better job when that something is interesting and engaging. I take it as a daily challenge to give students better, more engaging materials to read. And I think it shows. The best compliment I've ever received in this job was when a teacher contacted us about a passage I'd written. The passage had a bit of a cliffhanger ending, due to the strict word limit I have to deal with. The kids loved the story so much that they wanted to go out and find the whole story or the book it came out of. The teacher said she and her students scoured the Internet looking for the story, but they couldn't find it anywhere. I informed her that I had, in fact, written the passage, and that there was nothing more. She told me that her students loved the story and that they'd be disappointed to know they couldn't find the rest of the story. That day felt great. It was nice to know that kids actually do enjoy the stories we put in the tests from time to time.

But it also got me to thinking about how much I might like to write stories for kids outside of the classroom.

Maybe I will pick up some of those old story threads and start developing them into children's books. It comes naturally to me, and it's fun. It's really a lot like being a kid again to put yourself into these fantastic little stories and dream.

We'll see.

Overheard at the Grocery Store

2009-05-01T11:05:00.002-05:00

Mom, grabbing a box of cereal off the shelf: You need some cold cereal so I don't have to keep making oatmeal for you every dang morning.

Little Boy: But I like oatmeal.

Mom: Well, I'm sick of making it. Until you can make your own oatmeal, you're gonna eat cold cereal.